Kay is an artist and therefore dreams of moving to the country, where she can stop being a radio, a billboard, a siren. She wants to be decaying trees and vines, a hive dried of its honey. Only when inspired would she make her miniature man sculptures from colored tissue and cow dung. Kay's read books about women artists who follow heart-shaped breadcrumbs to the country, then implode inside their blue cavern skulls. She thinks of Plath, churning cherry jam, Bogan's house in flames. Whole rooms, pots of fruit, burning. Still, Kay scans the want ads for cheap acres. Her heart, locked in its smoggy pen, bleats. It is only 10 a.m. and she is hungry, imagines her plot of land with a faceless man reaching up to a peach tree. Imagines her plot of land, all the good fruit picked, with only a broken line outlining where the man had stood. 10:03. Lonely? With all her baskets brimming? None yet toppled? But each peach unsalable, carrying her tiny brand. Teeth marks in the flesh.