I buy a loin chop with my window-washing money and hide it in the pull-out drawer under my bed, because we don’t eat meat in this household. Some time around midnight the chop grows arms like E.T., pushes the drawer open, clumsy long fingers searching for the source of warmth, and hugs me tight into the mattress, strokes my cheek. When I’m nearly asleep, it plays This Little Piggy on my toes. I decide to call it Roy. The next day Mom scolds me for the hardened splotches of myoglobin on the mattress.

A week later I come home from school to find Mom has cleaned out the drawer and thrown Roy out. She calls me nasty, says the whole house stinks of rotting flesh now, asks if I want to get us all sick, and do I even think about the baby. I run to the curb, frantically dig Roy out of the garbage. He’s covered in carrot peelings and blister packs and pieces of paper towel. I wash him under tepid water and bury him in the backyard in a small Amazon box with a gingham scarf, hum This Little Piggy under my breath, a eulogy of sorts.

At night I squirm in my clean sheets, wait for morning to come.