Even the nonsmoker's lung in the jar on the shelf is webbed with black: this is what we learn here. One drink is just the first step. Holding hands is just the first step. The stairs lead downward, and gravity is constant. We recite symptoms, body parts, bases. For our drug unit, Mrs. Kemp invites a madman off the streets to speak, and we can't bear to see his rotten teeth. He tells us, "God will punish even the best of you." She invites an angel next, for abstinence, but its light blinds the three girls who look at it, and it tells us the same. It adds, "You already carry sin in your hearts." This is something we know about — disease stewing in the moisture and the dark. The unholy temples of our bodies.

In the emergency unit, Jennifer Bailey continues CPR after Mrs. Kemp tells us to stop, pulling out of our attempts to restrain her. Finally, her dummy breathes and opens its empty eyes. Handless, nerveless, sexless, it is everything we had given up hope of becoming. We dress it in a sweatshirt, tying the arms behind its back, and decorate Jennifer's locker in gratitude the next morning. But when we go to class again, the dummy is gone. The reek of burnt plastic clings to Mrs. Kemp's turtleneck.