It's me. It's Sal. I'm Sal.

The Chief went still.

"What're you trying to say, kid?"

I dipped my fingers in the herb juice and reached for the wall—

The cellar door yanked open.

My parents walked in, all smiles, a phone cradled between them, already talking about taking Jean for Japanese food that weekend.

"Our baby girl loves king crab. You'd better not disappoint her." My mother's voice was warm, coaxing.

My father was grinning ear to ear.

"Relax, honey. I booked the table days ago."

"After dinner, we'll take her to that new movie she wants to see."

Jean's bright laughter rang out from the phone speaker.

A family of three, picture-perfect and warm.

I hadn't eaten in over a day. My stomach was hollow and cramping.

My mother noticed me swallowing hard, one hand pressed to my belly.

The smile didn't leave her face, but her eyes went cold.

She scooped a ladle of pig slop from the bucket in the corner and dumped it on the ground in front of me.

"Eat. You were born for this—cheap life, cheap feed."

"Can't let you actually starve, though. What would our baby girl do without you."

The stench hit the back of my throat and I gagged.

My vision darkened at the edges and I collapsed onto my side, gasping.

The Chief's voice was barely a murmur:

"That's not fit for a person to eat."

My mother looked down at him, one slow, freezing glance.

"Mind your own business."

Time blurred. Then the door groaned open again.

Old Dale stepped in, reeking of blood—years of slaughtering pigs had ground the smell into his clothes, his skin.

He stroked his heavy beard out of habit and gave me one flat look.

Then he turned on my parents with open contempt:

"A scrap of a girl like this, and you need me for the job? Insulting. I won't do it."

He picked up his boning knife and started for the door.

My mother cut him off after a few steps.

"You don't want the money, then?"

Dale's face went dark. He fixed her with a hard stare.

Cursing under his breath, he shoved everyone toward the cellar door.

"I don't like people watching me work. Get out. All of you. Out."

He took a long pull on his water pipe, then looked at me, something weary and reluctant behind his eyes.

"Kid, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You look about the same age as one of ours who left the village. Whatever they're asking you to do, just agree to it."

I shook my head as hard as I could, tears streaming, mouth working but only a thin rasp coming out.

Old Dale had been good to me since I was small. He was a butcher, yes.

But he wrote beautiful calligraphy.

He was the one who taught me to read and write.

The memory pushed my hand forward. I dragged my blood-tipped finger across the ground, slow and deliberate.

But the pain shook through me until my whole body jerked and my hand wouldn't obey—every stroke fell apart into meaningless scrawl.

Dale sighed.

"Girl, I can't make out a thing you're writing."

"Can you talk at all?"

I shook my head, chest heaving with panicked breaths.

If I missed this chance, it was over.

What else could prove who I was?

The birthmark.

There was a crescent-moon birthmark on my forearm. Everyone in the village knew it.

Hope surged through me and I bit down on the cloth binding my wrists, teeth slipping on the wet fabric, tearing until my jaw ached.

One look at that mark and Dale would know me instantly.

He noticed what I was doing.

He set his water pipe down and came toward me.

The cloth was almost off. I was reaching for my sleeve.

My father shoved through the door. His gaze landed on my loosened hands.

His face went stone.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I thrashed and whimpered, forcing out a broken moan, jerking my chin toward Dale, toward my own forearm.

My mother spotted the crooked blood-smeared characters on the ground in one glance.

Her face twisted. She shoved Dale and the Chief out of the cellar and slammed the door behind them.

I watched them go, helpless, and then the slap came. Her long nails tore across my cheek, and the pain was white-hot.

The scratches burned like fire on raw skin.

My mother sneered:

"This wretched girl was trying to send a message."

My father said nothing. He took the hammer down from the wall.

He pinned my hand flat and crushed my fingers one by one, right in front of me.

"This is what happens when you don't behave."

I screamed and sank my teeth into his hand as hard as I could.

Dead set on tearing off a chunk of flesh.

He flinched from the pain and slammed the hammer into my skull.

Blood poured down my face. My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor.

My mother rushed over, alarmed, grabbing at my head to check how bad it was.

She shot my father a glare.

"You want to beat her to death? Then what happens to Jean!"

He used the opening to kick me several times.

Then he pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it to his bleeding hand, and cursed:

"Relax. A pest like her won't die that easily."

A bloodied grin split my lips.

I tilted my face up at him, blood sheeting down, and bared my teeth the way a wolf grinds its jaws before it lunges.

So don't let me catch an opening.

You won't even know how you died.

That look was enough to set him off again.

"Still haven't learned your lesson."

He laughed coldly, picked up a length of hemp rope from the floor, and looped it around my neck.

Then he knocked out my entire right molar.

He was lining up for the second one when the door swung open.

A pretty silhouette ducked in from behind the Chief.

The moment my father saw who it was, he let go of me.

Shoved me behind his back.

God forbid Jean had to look at the mess.

My mother lit up with a mix of alarm and delight, reaching out to pull her toward the door.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing here?"

"Come with Mommy. It's filthy in here, it's bad for your condition."

Jean's pale face wore a gentle smile.

She shook her head, freed herself from my mother's grip.

Walked over to me, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

"It must hurt so much, little sis."

"If you just do as you're told, you won't have to suffer. Mom and Dad really do love you."

"Once I'm better, we'll study together, go to school together…"

My gaze went cold.

I looked at that face barely concealing its satisfaction.

And spat a mouthful of bloody spit straight into it.

Dream on.

All the scheming to drag me here and put me through this—just to break me into volunteering as Jean's walking organ bank. Her rare disease rotted her organs on a schedule, and she needed fresh ones every time.

She shrieked, wiping her face, and toppled backward to the ground.

My father kicked me over.

My mother snatched up a sickle and moved to slice off my lips.

Jean scrambled to hold them both back.

For a single instant, something venomous flickered across that angelic face.

"Mom, Dad, don't blame her. She doesn't want to, and I understand."

"Maybe there's another way she'd agree."

My mother's face brightened.

She seized Jean's arm.

"Really, sweetheart? You mean it?"

Jean nodded, her gaze drifting down to my lower belly.

A slow, loaded smile spread across her lips.

"My doctor said as long as it's her own flesh and blood, it can save me."

I froze.

The next second, my father called in Chief Harmon.

He pointed at me on the floor and spoke without warmth.

"Round up every man in your village. Old, young, doesn't matter. Get her pregnant within a year."

"The money still stands."

The Chief looked down at me, gasping on the ground.

Looked away. Nodded.

Soon after, I was married off by drawing lots to the village watchman.

A man with a bad leg and Down syndrome.

The night before I was to be sent to the old house, the Chief came in.

He looked at me bound hand and foot, said nothing, and pushed back my sleeve.

He saw the blistered burn scars covering my arm.

He shook his head.

"What was I thinking. There's no way this is Sally."

I watched his back as he walked away, and the last thing to leave was the light.

Jean walked in with her arms crossed and looked me over with a cold sneer.

"You don't actually think you're getting out of here, do you?"

"Trying to use that birthmark to get someone to pass a message."

"Relax. The only way you leave is in a box."

The next morning, a red cloth was draped over my head and I was carried to the old kiln-house.

Jean insisted on pulling off my veil—demanded the bride kiss the groom right there in front of everyone.

The instant the cloth came away, the groom froze mid-clap, his short thick hands hanging in the air.

Drool slipped down his chin, and he broke into a delighted grin:

"Sally! The bride is Sally!"