Chapter 3: One Bite, A Lifetime

The crying faded slowly, like a radio turning down. When the sun finally rose, everything was silent.

I knew, somehow, she was gone.

Grandpa calmly called Dad to help put Grandma in a thin pine coffin that had been waiting in the shed. They hurried to bury her, not saying a word.

The coffin looked barely big enough for a child, rough and splintered at the edges. Grandpa barked orders, and Dad moved like a ghost, eyes red and swollen.

There were no prayers, no words of comfort—just the sound of shovels biting into frozen earth.

My brother wore the new shirt Grandma had sewn for him, stitch by stitch. He spat at her coffin:

"Old witch, you ate my drumstick!"

A pause.

"Serves you right to freeze to death!"

The words stung, sharp as sleet. The shirt was bright red, the thread still visible where Grandma had worked late into the night by lamplight. For a second, I wanted to tear it off him.

I couldn’t hold back. I went up and slapped him hard.

He wailed and cried, flopping in the muddy snow, wriggling like a fat worm.

My palm tingled from the blow. But I didn’t regret it.

Eli’s cries echoed across the yard, drawing the neighbors’ curtains. I stood over him, shaking with anger and grief.

Grandpa saw this and tried to beat me half to death, but Mom jumped in front, begging and taking a few hits herself.

She shielded me with her body, arms wide. Grandpa’s blows landed on her back, but she didn’t flinch.

Her eyes met mine, fierce and loving. I knew she would never let him hurt me if she could help it.

This time, the sheep looked even older, its wool yellowed and patchy. It limped around the yard, head low, eyes cloudy. The neighbors whispered, some crossing themselves, others just shaking their heads.

The sheep looked ancient and dull. It always ran to the woodstove, pressing its nose to the back door, shivering in the cold. It refused to be chased away.

It would press its nose against the back door, leaving little wet patches on the porch. No matter how many times Grandpa yelled, it wouldn’t budge.

It was like it was waiting for something—or someone.

Grandpa watched the sheep, a strange smile tugging at his lips. He said the sheep brought good luck, that something good was coming for our family.

He puffed on his pipe, smoke curling around his head like a halo.

"Mark my words," he said, tapping the ash into the snow. "This is a sign."

They cornered the sheep by the woodpile. Dad grabbed its horns while Grandpa sharpened his knife on the stone.

The air was thick with dread. Even the crows on the fence fell silent.

The sheep looked at me, tears running down its face. It bleated, staring straight at me. It didn’t even struggle, just let Dad tie up its legs, waiting for the end.

Its eyes met mine, dark and deep, and I swear I saw a flicker of something familiar—something human.

The sound it made was more like a sob than a bleat.

I couldn’t help but hug the sheep, and I smelled something familiar. In a daze, I heard Grandma’s voice again: "The sheep must walk upright."

The scent clung to my shirt, a mix of lanolin and something sweeter, almost like the kitchen after Sunday dinner.

Grandma’s words echoed in my head, making my heart race.

I was stunned, my limbs numb, almost unable to believe it.

My knees buckled, and I sank into the snow.

The world spun around me, and I clung to the sheep’s wool like it was a lifeline.

Dad, annoyed by my interference, picked me up and tossed me aside. He even kicked me hard.

The pain shot up my leg, hot and sharp.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

Grandpa raised the knife and slit the sheep’s throat, drained its blood, then cut a hole in its leg to blow air in, peeling off the hide in one go.

The whole thing was quick and practiced, almost like a ritual.

Blood steamed on the snow, staining it bright red. The smell of iron filled the air, and I turned away, gagging.