She climbs into the car, wasps struggling in her hair. The door closes and she stares ahead at the glovebox. I start the engine. She smells of urine and sweat and I can see the cuts on her hands and wrists. I roll the car forward and soon we are on the highway passing broken rocks and dead trees.
“What is your name?”
She half opens her mouth and a new wasp appears, crawls to the edge of her mouth, and shimmers on her ruby lower lip. The wasp is black and perfect. Blood sings.