Teacakes for Foxes

I dig the tip of my knife into the moon’s round edge and shuck it out of the night sky. It tumbles into my arms, glowing weakly. The sky gapes black and ravenous without it, but this full moon could cure us all. 

It has to, because we’ve tried everything else. Brewing fiddlehead ferns and bitter yellow mushrooms. Coating our bodies in petroleum jelly and laying under a molten sky. Mouthfuls of rotted peaches, their furred skin burning our lips. 

You were one of the first to change. It started in increments–your throat pricked by red fur, your jaw and lips swelling, black pupils spilling into the whites of your eyes. Soon, yipping and whining could be heard behind every door. There was no way to interpret why some of us didn’t change.

The first instruction arrived overnight, chiseled into the statue of the mayor. ‘Open your hearts and let the sky in.’ The next instructions were left in arrangements of feathers and stones, on the undersides of leaves, on the billboard by the highway. 

Some people tried to leave. The mayor’s wife drove her car into the river and was pronounced dead for two minutes before being revived. When she choked up rancid water and another instruction, we stopped looking for ways out. 

The moon is small but heavier than I expected and it only just fits in my arms, nearly crushing my chest. Beside me, you pirouette and dance. I keep moving towards our cabin and eventually you trail after me, your ears pricked at night sounds. We remove dew-soaked coats and you nuzzle up to me, half-fox, flushed with fever.

The latest instruction is to pare the moon down to bitesize morsels and place a piece under every tongue. I’ve followed every single instruction so far, no matter how strange, how impossible. Anything to keep you from vanishing completely into a fox. 

But now I hold my breath, lungs swollen between my ribs. I promised myself I’d never ask. “What does it feel like?” 

“Like floating in the dark,” you say, barking with laughter. You spin in a circle, grinning so wide you could swallow me. “Like waking up.”

I can almost imagine it. I could slip out of my skin, turn to fur and hunger. When I look down, I think that my fingers might be shrinking. Sloping foxward. 

You curl up on the rug, tail looped around one ankle. The gingham dress and sneakers don’t fit anymore. We used to go out for afternoon tea for your birthday. Ribbons in our hair, smiles ironed on. You loved the ceremony of it, the clean porcelain and paper doilies. 

I reach for the Betty Crocker box, saved for a special occasion. Tearing it open, I inhale a miniature cloud of cocoa powder. Imagine the town square and all the houses foaming with foxes, a river of red flame. Imagine teeth that don’t fit into my mouth anymore. 

The moon pulses, urging me to slice into it, before it’s too late. There’s still time for me to follow the latest instructions. Instead, I place two bone china cups onto the cracked Formica table and put the kettle on.