Woman, Soon

Her crinkled fingers manipulate the udders of the goat in front of her, and warm milk flows, splashing into the bucket. What a satisfying sound.

She hears the footsteps behind her, but she does not turn. The click of a cocking gun makes her smile. She pats the goat on the rear, and it clambers down.

“We’ve come to collect the girl. She’s come of breeding age- “

She stands, turning to face a young soldier in all black. She smirks at him with her scarred mouth, her bright blue eyes piercing him.

“I know why you’re here.”

Their stares are locked, her hands relaxed at her side, his shaking around his gun.

“Do you think you’re the first man to stand here and threaten me? To point a gun at me? I survived the fall.” She says calmly, wiping her hand on her apron. She stands resolute. "I survived it all, and I have rebuilt this, and you are-"

“You are on government land reclaimed during the Second Fall. You are ordered-” He insists, his voice shaky until she interrupts him.

“I used to be your slave, too.” She spits at him. He steps back in disgust and glares at her. “There is no one here but me and my memories.”

I hear the gunshot. I hear them arguing. I was supposed to stay inside, that is what I was told to do today. But the gunshot lures me out. I peek through the dusty glass at the back door.

Their armored vehicle sits outside the barn. It looks out of place, all sleek metal and futuristic, against our shabby barn.

I duck my head down before they can see me. If they see me, I will be taken, and I cannot be taken.

I know where to go. I dart down through the kitchen and into our root cellar. Jars and jars of pickled and preserved vegetables, jams, and jellies line the shelves in the small space.

I struggle with the trap door on the floor. It is especially difficult to move because I cannot shift the sack of potatoes that usually weighs it down and disguises most of the seams. They’ll know where I am if I do, so instead I pry it up just enough to slip beneath it.

I inch it upwards just enough to wedge my body beneath—it squeezes my chest when I slide through—but manage it on my own. I am now under the floorboards. I lay perpendicular, wiggle my way along the joists until I can go no further.

I tilt my head to the side and wait.

It is agonizing to hear them tear my house apart. It is the only place I have ever called home, and they pick through everything.

Footsteps pound above my head, and I hold my breath. I have no space to move. Still, I wince when I hear the jar smash right behind my head. Liquid drips down onto the side of my head, vinegar stinging my eyes and nose, but I don’t make a sound.

“She has to be here somewhere.” One argues. “They know her age, they know what is required.”

“Maybe they moved her already.” Another smash from across the room. Someone curses.

“They had to have. There’s nothing else here.”

“Hold on. Do you see that?”

The footsteps scuffle along the floor, coming to rest beside my trap door and the sack of potatoes.

“There’s a seam… A door.” A stomp of a foot.

I flinch. My heartbeat pounds in my chest.

I hear the shift of the potato sack and feel the excitement in the air. They are excited, but fear and bile rise in my throat.

The trap door creaks, and I shift my hand silently over my mouth and turn my head to face away as someone pokes their head down into the space.

“It’s just the floor joists. There’s nothing here.”

‘Get a light down there.”

“Do you have one?”

“No…” Cursing again. The one on the floor raises up but then comes back, sweeping his arms along the space. I instinctively tuck myself away as I feel the air from his fingertips.

“There’s no one there. Come on. They moved her. Let’s just report back.”

Tears stain my hand, and I bite down on my fingers. They won’t get me. They won’t.

And they don’t. They retreat, not bothering to return my trap door. I hear them recede from the house, boots loud and scraping, kicking things, breaking things. I still wait.

I wait until I hear gentle cricket song.

I wait until I hear croaking frogs.

I wait until I hear nothing but nighttime wildlife outside our farm.

And then I lift myself from my hiding space, stiff and sore.

I walk out to the barn, unsure what I’ll find. The milk has soured in its pail, having been left the whole day. A curious animal bleats at me, nipping the hem of my clothes. I bat her away.

There, on a nail against the side of the milking stall, rests her golden locket. The goats usually try and nibble at it if she wears it when she’s milking, so she takes it off.

My fingers reach out, taking the cool metal locket in hand. I thumb over the gentle curves and the pointed tip. I lift it over my own neck, and it settles in the hollow of my throat.

I suppose, I am a woman now, in this new kind of world.