My father's signature knock signals his presence at the door. That is the warning before it opens and he pokes his head into the room.

I feign grogginess. To do otherwise would be to abandon the jig and accept my defeat. I can't do that.

He seems to buy it-- or perhaps he is pretending. I can't be sure. In a voice sweeter than syrup, he whispers, "Good morning, corncob."

I miss that particular nickname. Hearing it makes my heart hurt. He used to call me that when I was younger, before his distaste for my presence became so obvious, before it settled in like the seventh member of this household. He hasn't called me anything other than Jacqueline over the past year.

So I give him a sleepy smile, pretending there isn't a storm of conflicting emotions inside of me. "Good morning, Father."

On the one hand, there is giddiness at the idea that he might love me once again and that maybe our relationship is finally healing. On the other, there is the funeral bell tolling he knows, he knows, he knows. On the third, more secretive hand, there is a flat-out terror at the thought of what might happen if he finds out that I don't believe in the things he does.

I want his love more than anything in the world. I want it so much that it hurts. I know that is terribly selfish of me.

I push it down. It can push against the walls I have trapped it in all it wants, but I will not let it free.

"Are you awake?" he asks, voice low to keep everyone else asleep.

"Almost." I don't have to feign the fact that I'm tired as all get-out.

"Good. Time to get up. Your preparation for the Spring Festival begins today. I will drive you to the church on my way to my council meetings."

"Yes, Father."

"Dress modestly."

"Yes, Father."

Before leaving, he hesitates, then says, "I'm proud of you, corncob."

Before I have the opportunity to respond (not that I could), he leaves my room.

I dress simply. I have no other choice. There is no frivolity in my closet, per the orders of my father. I guess I don't mind all that much. It streamlines the process.

I look at the overalls on their wooden hanger. I do not want to look at them.

I wear the same thing as always: pale shirt, pale jeans, pale socks, pale sweater. I consider putting on the work boots, just as a little test, but I know that the jeans are already pushing it. He prefers it when I wear skirts.

That's okay. He isn't going to make me "dress like I'm supposed to" yet. That can come later.

I carry my shoes out to the car, holding them in one hand and my scripture bag in the other. I want to leave it behind, but I know how my father is. It's better to take them. It's better to follow the path laid out for me.

Both of us sit up front in the car. I can't help but suffocate in the silence. I wish he would tell me what's happening in his mind.

The chorus repeats again. He knows, he knows, he knows. I don't get anything close to relief for the whole of the drive, not even when he tells me that he's proud of me before dropping me off on the sidewalk outside the church.

It should feel nice. It should make my insides melt. There must something wrong with me, because all I can muster is anxiety and guilt. The selfish part of my mind wonders why he doesn't love me all the time. I can't tell if it's on purpose or not, that he's making me feel this way, that he is so easily burrowing, as if a worm whispering, under my skin. If there is some ulterior motive written in his words, I don't want to decode it.

He waves goodbye to me when I leave, and I wave goodbye to him, and the ice around my heart melts just a little.

Maybe it's not ice. Maybe it's something closer to aspic, and he has cut into it with the side of a fork. I'm not the Frost King, after all; I am the Spring Hare.

I shouldn't worry so much. I know where I stand. He has made it clear that he only loves me so far as he is supposed to.

It boils just under the surface as I, smiling like my life depends on it, enter the church. I don't know how I'm supposed to keep going. Why does everything I do come back to this?

I'm supposed to forgive him. I'm supposed to take my heart to the Lord and forgive my father over and over and over again.

I enter the church, go to Bishop Stern's office, and wait for him there. I sneak a look at the storage closet, then look away. There's no reason to look over there.

I catch a glimpse of dark skin and white skirts out of the corner of my eye. When I look there's nobody there, just a closed door and the halls branching off in either direction. I try to look down them and see into the darkness of this endless windowless space. All I see closed door after closed door. There's nothing.

What if I am seeing things? What if Maryanne wasn't in the storage closet, or if I didn't actually try to free her, or if I didn't see her in the woods last night?

I push it down and try to forget. Doubt is a nasty little bug, though. It's a fly, laying its eggs in the steaming dumpster at the back of my mind.

Bishop Stern gets there eventually, keys jangling in his hand. He finds me sitting on the ground next to his office door. "Good morning, Jacks. Are you feeling any better today?"

"Yes, Bishop," I lie.

"Good. We missed you at the church yesterday." He pops open the door to the office, then holds it there. I scramble up and duck under his arm to get into the room.

My discomfort and guilt continues to stew and fester as we go through our daily studies. We do our scripture study, we talk over the implications of what we read, and, as we do so, I can't help but think that he can hear my every thought or that I am wearing guilt like a Sunday dress.

The bells are back. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Maybe he doesn't. If he does, he doesn't let on. I search his face for any sign of it, but find nothing.

About halfway through our normal time, he looks up at the clock and sighs. "Well, Jacks. We probably have to stop now."

"May I ask why?" Mentally, I am already packing my scriptures up and getting ready for the long walk home.

"I have business to take conduct with the council. We are meeting with your father for the first time. We have to discuss some things, for the good of the church and the town."

I can't help but wonder what he means by "things." Does he mean discussing what happened in the woods last night with his little council? Or does he mean normal council activities?

They run this whole town, after all. They're in charge of everything. They organize the food, the school, the water, the electricity. Their rationing seems to be more of a show of ppwer than compassion.

I don't want to do this Hare thing. It hits ne like a needleful of dread. I want to do what I normally do.

I haven't been working in the gardens and fields and doing repairs these past few weeks because I have been preparing for my task of bringing spring back to the world. I want to be out there, but here I am.

I can't help but wonder: is this what the day-to-day is like for them? Do they sit around like Bishop Stern and I, reading and talking and never coming to a conclusion om theological and socioeconomic matters?

Maybe I'm missing something. Maybe I'm incorrect about what I'm thinking. Maybe I'm just bitter.

Whether they're founded or unfounded, I push down all my thoughts. There's no use in dwelling on it.

I nod to Bishop Stern, fold up my scripture bag with my books and journal inside it. I wave goodbye to Bishop Stern, who leaves with a friendly backwards glance.

I stand rhere for a moment longer, still furious and overcome by emotions I can't express or accurately name. I am stuck in a prison of my own making. The only option is to stand there until I'm numb.

Then I have to pee.

Almost mindlessly, I walk myself to the bathroom. It's eerie, being in here by myself without the chatter of women and their children, waiting in line for the single changing table. It's easier to hear the pipes. It's easier to hear how quiet it is.

I wash my hands with clear, cold water that feels a little too refreshing. It rouses me from a waking slumber I didn't know I was drowning in. I look at myself in the mirror, giving myself a confused stare almost through my eyebrows, looking myself in the eye.

Is this what I am? I look almost the same as I always have. My lips are the same shape. My eyes are the same muddy gray-blue, like my mother's but dingier. I can't help but look at the blemishes, though. My nose is perpetually peeling. Small clogged pores with little brown, gray, and black tops are gathered in clusters between coarse patches of hair. My eyebrows are getting closer together, with thick brownish hair growing between them. I poke at myself, hoping for some hidden meaning.

As I stand here, looking at myself, nose bleeding and red, I can't help but touch the rest of my head, searching for ingrown hairs and knots I didn't brush out. Did I wash my hair recently? I can't tell.

And that's when I feel them.

There are two hard bumps like knobs on the side of my head. There's one on either side, just above my temples. I can't tell what they are just by feeling, and it's hard to get a good look in the mirror. 

The exposed part of it reminds me of a memory I had long since forgotten. One time, my father took us hunting, just John and I. He said that it was important. I was the oldest, and John was the oldest boy; one day, he would be gone, and we would have to lead the family together. Father said that God has given us, is chosen people, dominion over this earth and the creatures on it. I can remember his voice, clear as day, saying, "Adam named every animal so that we would know what we were eating. Meat is important. It's sacred. It's ordained of God. Do you understand me?"

When we both nodded, he took careful aim and shot the deer closest to us.

When it was all over and done, and the animal was skinned, chopped up, prepared for venison jerky and venison meat, he had us hold parts of its body. Bones rested as easily in my hands as antlers. 

That's what I feel, under the hair and the skin.  Oh, no. My skin runs cold; my tomach turns; this can't be happening. I am monstrous. I am unholy. I am an amalgamation of things I am only just beginning to fear-- things I can't hide, like hair and horns and internal changes. Should I then be consumed?

I am the ship of Theseus. How much can I change before I'm no longer myself?