Free The Grave of God's Daughter by Brett Ellen Block

railing. Before I could get my balance, the bicycle began listing from the weight of the packages in the basket. Next, I tried leaning the bicycle against the railing and scooting onto the seat from behind. However, the sagging crotch of my newly fashioned trousers got caught and I spent the following minute untangling myself. Already frustrated, I made one last-ditch effort to mount the bicycle by taking a running leap at the seat and swinging my leg over the top of it. I immediately slid off, nearly coming down hard on the crossbar, but managed to land on my tiptoes and steady the bicycle only to have the front wheel turn, causing the bicycle to take a nosedive. Fortunately, I caught the handlebars before the contents of the basket could go clattering to the ground. It was a losing battle and, I decided, another fitting punishment for lying about being able to ride a bicycle in the first place. The meat couldn’t stay outside for long, but there was no way I could use the bicycle to make the deliveries, at least not yet.
    Mr. Goceljak had a small curing shed a few yards behind his shop, and beyond that lay the empty field. Tall weeds and briar bushes that had grown unchecked for years had overtaken the land. The tops of the bushes were higher than my shoulders. No one, not even the most adventurous of children in town, would attempt to enter the field for fear of the prickling bushes and sharp weed stalks. If I could hide the bicycle in the field, there was no way it would be found.
    I quickly packed the parcels of meat into the waistband of my makeshift trousers, tucking them securely between my skirt and the twine belt Mr. Goceljak had made for me. With the thick packets of meat around my waist, my body must have appeared to havedoubled in size, adding to my disguise. All the better, I thought as I hitched up the pants and prepared to move the bicycle into the field.
    No longer weighed down with the meat, the bicycle was much easier to maneuver. Getting it into the field would be the hard part. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater out from under my coat to cover the tops of my hands and hunched my shoulders to protect my neck, then forged through the threshold of briars and weeds. Thorns bit into my fingers and scratched at my face. The underbrush was as thick as mud, making it difficult to plod even a few feet into the field, but a few feet was enough. I stomped down the brush to clear a place for the bicycle and laid it on the ground as gently as I could. Even though it was stubborn, rusted, unconquerable, and ugly, I liked the bicycle. I wanted it to be safe.
    Once the bicycle was hidden, I bounded out of the field as fast as I could, brambles snagging my clothes as I went. When I emerged, my coat was covered in nettles. I could feel them through the trousers, but I had little chance to care. There were eleven deliveries to be made, each at various ends of town, and since I had to make the journey on foot, there was no time to waste.
    I couldn’t run on Field Street without drawing attention, so I stuck to the alleyway along the field. I was moving my legs as fast as they would go, but the parcels of meat strapped to my sides started to slip and I was forced to clutch my hips as I ran. The regular percussion of my heart was replaced by a relentless pounding. My blood was drumming through my body and air was churning in and out of my lungs. At first, the sensation scared me. I’d run before, run until I was out of breath, butnever like this. For a second, the feeling was akin to fear, a condition I was more than familiar with. Fear could creep along over your skin, climb its way up your ribs, or leap onto your shoulders without warning, I’d learned that much. I couldn’t remember a time when my father didn’t drink or a time when I wasn’t afraid of what he could or would do. He might erupt in rage or laughter, angry about some unimportant incident or amused by some imaginary joke. Both were equally frightening,