She slept in the ground for forty-three years. She slept and waited, waited for the vibration of footsteps above her--waited for a savior, a shovel and sifting dirt.
She could still feel the knife blade in her stomach.
She could still see the drunken ignorance on his face.
So she slept and waited and gathered her strength.
She called upon the worms and spiders to help her.
I will give you my skin and hair and nails, if you will give me breath, she thought. The worms took her skin and the spiders took her hair. They shared the nails.
She breathed cool and deep and waited . . .