By Kendra Pintor

Every woman in your family can unhinge her jaw and swallow ten times her body weight. By this estimate, swallowing a man whole is by no means an impossible task. Like this, your sister says, followed by the unlatching, the elongating, the confused screaming. The silence. His name was…Josh? No, James, your sister corrects. She is twice her normal size, towering above you, her mouth still hanging open, and her voice an octave lower than usual, as if James’ throat has become caught in hers. Wind whips across the football field; the creak of metal bleachers and the drone of stadium lights flickering to life filling the space between you and the person you were before your sister swallowed her boyfriend whole. What did he do? you ask, crossing your arms over your chest to ward away the cold (not the chill in the air, but the one creeping up your spine). He broke up with me, your sister says, jaw locked back into place, allowing her to reapply her bubblegum-colored lipstick. You look up at the jaws of night, swallowing the sunset’s pink tongue. A bit of advice, your sister says, looping an arm over your shoulder and drawing you close, make sure you don’t like the boys you date too much. Together, you walk back to the car as the lot begins to fill and James’ teammates arrive to prepare for the Friday night game he will not get to play. This will be the first time his friends will note he is missing, but chalk it up to nothing until his family files a police report a few days later. This will then cause the school to head a search party, hand out flyers with his picture on it, offer condolences to your sister, who will no doubt make a show of her worry for as long as she must, big fake tears falling from her big, blue doe-eyes, until finally, it becomes clear that James will not be found. You get into the car, wondering how much longer your family has in this town before the mounting number of missing men sends them—and you—packing; how long before your mother begins looking for a new hunting ground. What about him? Your sister nods, and you follow her gaze out the window to Nathan Hutch, a freshman in your class, the boy (that you made the mistake of telling your sister) you met at the library (just to work on a history project together) last week. You don’t like Nate, not like that. In fact, you don’t think you like boys like that at all. But it is too much to think about what this means for someone like you, whose family’s entire existence depends on devouring boys, men, boyfriends, husbands…fathers. Nate is just a guy who sits next to me in history, you reply, perhaps with too much nonchalance, which makes your sister raise her eyebrows. Okay, she says wryly, and you press your forehead against the glass as she pulls out onto the road, silently pleading with God, if the men can’t be spared, spare me.