" noses to the breeze and they know which girls will always run in the wrong direction, every time. Which ones will never tell a soul, shame snaking a thin blue thread through their veins; they’re just surprised to be left alive. Not grateful, certainly, not willing, but familiar with the customs in that bad part of the country, that fat wasteland. The currency, the dull thud of a fist, or a penis, or a mouthful of mud. The older one was teaching it to the younger one. The way they do. Next time he’d be able to smell it out for himself. A pheasant with birdshot in her belly, but still alive. A nest of rabbits. A girl watching the river unravel. Next time he’d know, too. "

― Laura Kasischke , Suspicious River