"Did you hear about the girl?"

The girl.
The girl, the girl, the girl.

"I heard they found her somewhere in Dinkytown."

"No, she was in Marcy Holmes, frozen in a park."

"Hypothermia." The silence of mutual contemplation.

The girl. The girl the girl.

Even after a few days, the questions stab. They aren't even surprising anymore, but they still cut. Throb. Slice you up. Each time, in that flicker of silence between the question and answer, the blade is pried out of your chest. A hiss of air escapes your lungs. Blood gushes between your breasts, spilling down your shirt.

You. can't. breathe.

Did you did you did you?

Knife.
Breath.
Blood.

Did you?

She was frozen in a park.

Knife.

Did you?

Stolen breath. (You did you did. You did.)

Did you?
Echoed words.

Blood. (You did. Oh God, you did.)

Did—?

You run.

Knife.
Breath.
Blood.