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BEFORE WE WERE BLUE

calories she’d hidden. She didn’t choose chocolate; she ate a
bowl of ice cream instead. But I swear her eyes were so swollen
the next day, it was like she didn’t have any.
“Shoshana.” Rowan tugs on my already-rolled sleeve.
I follow her puppy eyes and parted lips to see, at the back
of the line, a fresh face, her new kill. The new girl is here and

she’s tiny—like tiny tiny. The width of a matchstick. Her face
is full of freckles and her unruly orange, elbow-length hair
makes her an Eliza Thornberry lookalike, complete with a
mouth full of braces.
Rowan is practically oozing with the promise of a good
time. She has a thing about redheads, says they hide secrets
in the pigment of their hair. But I think New Girl looks mild.
Unextraordinary. The most interesting thing about her is that
she’s young. Maybe twelve, thirteen at most. The other Gray

girls in line chew their cheeks raw with anticipation, waiting
to see her break down at her first meal, everyone still buzzed
from the gossip of Alyssa’s death.
At the kitchen door, Nurse Hart combs my thin dark curls
into a high ponytail and I cringe as her fingers, soft and filled
with the fluid of age, take my own. She reminds me of my
Bubbee. They both have scattered moles on their faces, only

Nurse Hart’s aren’t hairy like Bubbee’s, and she has a less
raisin-like complexion, darker too. She must be younger, in
her forties or fifties. Nurse Hart is bigger though, not just
physically big, but aura big. When Nurse Hart is in the room,
everyone can feel it. Like a drop in temperature. Like a drizzle.
Rowan and I are given the green light by Nurse Hart, and

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