"Never approach him from behind. He'll need some time to get used to you." I give Hank a kiss on his nose and scratch him behind his ears. "Hank, this is Sloane," I say. "Sloane, this is Hank. He's nineteen, he's missing an eye, and he doesn't like sudden movements or loud noises."
"Does he bite?" she asks.
"Only if you deserve it." I chuckle. "Just kidding. Hold your hand out. Let him smell you."
She extends her hand — arm fully stretched, body leaning as far back as possible, fingers trembling. Hank sniffs her hand. He takes his time about it. Then he loses interest and goes back to staring at nothing.
"Now touch his neck," I say. "Gently."
She places her hand on his neck, two fingers first, then the whole palm, flat and stiff. She holds it there like she's taking his pulse.
"He's so dusty," she says, pulling her hand back and looking at her palm.
I look at her. Her white T-shirt is brown and there's straw in her hair. She also has a smear of something across her forehead that I'm choosing not to identify. "You're one to talk."
She looks down at herself and something crosses her face that might be the beginning of a smile, but she kills it before it gets anywhere.
"Wait here," I say. "Just stand there and let him ignore you. He's good at that."
I walk to the shed and grab the grooming box — a plastic crate with a body brush, a dandy brush, a curry comb, and a hoof pick that Hank tolerates about once a month if he's in a generous mood. I pull a few carrots from the bag in the feed store and bring it all back. Sloane hasn't moved and Hank hasn't moved. They're standing three feet apart in mutual suspicion.
"Here." I hand her the body brush. "Long strokes, following the direction of his coat. Start at the neck, work your way back. Don't go near his hindquarters until he trusts you, which won't be today. Give him a carrot first so he knows you're worth something."
She takes the carrot and holds it out at arm's length again. Hank immediately takes it.
Sloane puts the brush to his neck and moves it about two inches. She looks at me.
"Keep going," I say. "He's a donkey, not a soufflé. You're not going to break him."
11
SLOANE
The photographers had gone by the time I left the sanctuary, but I spent the entire walk to the bus stop looking over my shoulder. On the bus, an old woman in the front row watched me the whole way, not even pretending to look elsewhere. Two teenage boys nudged each other when I got on and one of them held up his phone and I'm pretty sure he was filming me.
Everyone knows what I did and I've never felt so unwelcome. Being famous in LA means getting good tables at restaurants. Being famous in Duster means being the woman who nearly killed Maggie Dawson's pigs.
The best the general store had to offer was a packet of sliced Monterey Jack and a box of crackers, and together they cost four dollars and twelve cents, which is the most economical meal I've ever purchased and possibly the most depressing.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed in my underwear. My shorts are hanging over the shower rail, dripping onto the bathroom floor. There's no laundromat in walking distance so I washed them in the shower with shampoo. The receptionist told me the nearest one is in Cawley which is a forty-minute bus ride.
I also bought an eleven-dollar bottle of Chardonnay from the general store and it tastes awful. I'm drinking it out of a plastic cup from the bathroom because there are no wine glasses at the Dusty Rose Motel but after today I'd drink it out of a shoe.
Apart from my daily check-in with Officer Reeves, my probation officer, I've been avoiding my phone. But the notifications have been building and the little red badges on every app have reached numbers I didn't know were possible.
I can't put it off forever and I need to call my father about sending more clothes. I'm currently rotating between two outfits and washing one of them with shampoo. I also need to text Sita back to feel, even for a minute, like I still exist in the world I came from.
I pour another cup of wine, pick up the phone, and open Instagram first because I'm a masochist.
The damage is extensive. My follower count has gone up by almost a hundred thousand, but for all the wrong reasons. The last photo I posted — a picture of me and Tyler just before the wedding, has a ridiculous amount of comments. I scroll through the first few.
princess pigpen lmaooooo — girl you really drove into a pig farm and just LEFT — the pig that stared at her car is my spirit animal — imagine being this rich and this stupid — justice system actually did something right for once — sloane archer community service era
The memes are everywhere. Someone has edited the security footage so that the pigs escape to the soundtrack of Born Free. Someone else has done a slow-motion version with dramatic narration, like a nature documentary:And here we see the North American swine, freed at last from captivity by an unlikely ally — a drunk socialite in eveningwear.There's a TikTok compilation of people recreating the crash with toy cars and stuffed pigs. There's a remix of the police bodycam audio —which I didn't even know existed — set to a beat. Someone has turned my mugshot into a greeting card template. Someone has put my face on a pig's body, and someone else has put a pig's face on my body. Mostly though, it's just hateful comments.
I feel sick so I ignore my other accounts and open my messages. There are hundreds. I scroll past the acquaintances and look for the names I actually care about.
Missed calls from Mom. None from Dad.
