![]() She reminded me of a dog, the way her head was jutted out of the window, her eyes on the sky, her tongue a ribbon all the way around my wrists. Her car had no windows either, just sashes of duct tape that flapped loose in the wind like dog’s ears. Leave where, I asked her, but she wasn’t looking at me. One time while I was walking to work at the dollar store, she drove up slow behind me and asked if I wanted to leave. When she drove it to the temple, pieces of the car crumpled off like cake, bits of windshield glass crumbed on her lips. Her car was a bashed-blue Subaru without any seatbelts, so she used bungee cords instead. ![]() She wanted to be a mechanic, and once when I was walking home from school, I saw her jump the fence into the junkyard, looking for living parts. Earthquake never spent any time at home, especially at night when her parents were there. Her father lifted his wife by the hair and rattled her teeth into rain. The first one was named Earthquake because she’d been born in the center of one: she was shaken out of her mother like a handful of nickels. ![]() There were three Ding daughters, each nicknamed after a disaster. ![]()
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