It was a dusty day outside to be safe in a silver Cadillac. As I pulled up to the large white farmhouse: a rumble in my stomach. 

Stepping out into the sunshine, I leaned forward and down a bit to extricate myself from the car. A yellowish cocoon the size of a beach ball dropped from between my legs and landed on the gravel. 

As soon as it made contact with the ground, it burst; but it was a soft burst, a pop, and as the thing shrunk and the clear liquid inside dispersed, I realized there was an animal inside.

Willfully I knelt, bent over the thing. I scooped it up and, with my index finger, dug into its mouth to pull out the goo that had collected there. What came out was the size and consistency of an egg yolk. "I know exactly what to do," I thought, "I have all the knowledge to keep this baby alive." I wrapped it in my cardigan and walked into the farmhouse.

It grew so quickly. Moments later, being carted around by one of my aunts, it was toddler-size, with a thick head of hair. I wandered around the house, which by this point was full of people I didn't know or knew vaguely.

Distant relatives and acquaintances everywhere I turned: watching television, playing cards, waiting for news. Where was the baby? It looked almost six. Sick and uncertain, I tried to phone my mother. Her secretary told me she wasn't taking my calls.

On a twin bed with Star Wars sheets I reclined with it, inclined to sleep off the panic. The baby whistled beside me, now the same length as my trunk. A woman with long red hair and flowy skirts came into the room and crouched down next to me. She whispered, "if we are on the lookout, everything continues to grow." 

The teenager next to me shifted, its toes now touching my own. Unable to close my eyes, but unwilling to watch it evolve, I left. In my flannel nightgown I rose, moving toward the empty kitchen to look out onto the endless fields of dust.

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