If she opens up the garbage bag, if she sees inside, in her almond hands, if they move and tear the bag, if she leans over and her hair falls in her face, if she pulls it behind one ear, if she stops and glassy eyed, breaths slowly, because there is the dead body of a dog in there. If she closes the bag and drags it to the side of the shed. If she unlocks the shed and finds the shovel. If she digs her shovel into the dry earth, if she does it all herself through an autumn afternoon. If she digs where she once sledded. If she digs where she will one day sit with friends under the stars and pass little papers filled with marijuana. If she puts a black bag in the ground and tries not to hear the thud of the body. If she pats the ground when she is done. If she doesn’t cry. If she comes inside and hangs up her coat. If she washes her hands and returns a key to an inside cupboard. If she puts her clothes in the dirty hamper, if she stands naked under hot water, if she has the body of a twelve-year old. If she does this all on an autumn day. If she does this when she is fifteen and seventeen and thirty-one. If she wears a new sweater and makes eggs for dinner. If she looks out the kitchen window, knowing no one will come home. If she watches the sky before it becomes dark. If she never knew until this moment what she was headed for.