--Amy GerstlerI’d given up hope. Hadn’t eaten in threedays. Resigned to being wolf meat ...when, unbelievably, I found myself ina clearing. Two goats with bellsround their necks stared at me:their pupils like coin slotsin piggy banks. I could have gottenthe truth out of those two,if goats spoke. I saw leeksand radishes planted in rows;wash billowing on a clothesline ...and the innocuous-looking cottagein the woods with its lapping tongueof a welcome mat slurped me in.In the kitchen, a woman so old her sexis barely discernible pours a glassof fraudulent milk. I’m so hungrymy hand shakes. But what is this liquid?“Drink up, sweetheart,” she says,and as I wipe the white mustacheoff with the back of my hand:“Atta girl.” Have I stumbledinto the clutches of St. Somebody?Who can tell. “You’ll find I prevail herein my own little kingdom,” she says asshe leads me upstairs—her bony gripon my arm a proclamation of ownership,as though I've always been hers.
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