Cutting his clothes away I set to work. Not much blood: heart stopped pumpin’. The toes were easy, feet not so bad; it was easy to imagine it was just meat, pushin’ through the window-crack. But the closer we got to the middle the harder of daddy it got and it took a lot of thought to think it wasn’t daddy. I remembered that little man inside, that bad little man who’d squatted there and maybe meant to kill us both. If I kept cutting maybe I’d cut him out and daddy’s soul would rise through the trees to heaven or wherever he was required.