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Phoenix Claws

Lee Murray

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A block from the Jade Garden restaurant, I reached out and grasped Fin’s arm. “Hang on.” So many boyfriends had failed; I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I made a fuss of straightening his collar, smoothing the flannel fabric over his weekend sweater. “You know to hold your rice bowl, right? Thumb on the lip, fingers underneath.”

He grinned. Rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“And your chopsticks—”

“Don’t cross them, don’t stand them up in the rice, and remember to keep my hand palm up when I’m using them,” he intoned in his best Victorian schoolboy. “I offer to pay, even insist a bit, but not too hard, because your dad has to take the honours. Otherwise, he loses face and has to hara-kiri himself on a butter knife.”

Not exactly. Hara-kiri was Japanese, not Chinese. Nevertheless, Fin was the one. I knew it. This uneasiness was just normal new-relationship jitters.

“How do I look?” I asked.

He waggled his eyebrows. Slipped his hands around my waist, his palms automatically heading south to cup my bottom. “Well, I’d do you,” he whispered, pulling me close, his breath in my ear.

I pushed him away. A public display of affection! How could I have ever thought this relationship was a good idea? There was no way this was going to work. My parents might like him, but they’d never fully accept him as my partner. He was everything he shouldn’t be: divorced, a tradie, white…

“We’ve been together for four months, Lucy. I practically live at your place. It’s just brunch,” Fin said gently. “And we’re already late. Come on.” Before I had time to come up with a halfway plausible excuse to skive off, he grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street.

Pushing open the double doors of the restaurant—red happiness characters for handles—we were blasted with noise. Even the crimson carpet, blackened from constant wear, heavy brocade curtains and pastoral Chinese tapestries did little to dampen the cacophony. It was a veritable canton of Chinese voices, high-pitched and harsh, the patrons’ shouts and chatter punctuated with the clatter of plates, the clink of cups, and the occasional sentence in flat English tones.

“Pork sui mai!” a server called.

“More chairs over here,” barked a hostess. “Table eight!”

“How many do you want?” another server asked a group of diners.

I squeezed by the line of people waiting for tables, past the murky aquarium full of oversized goldfish, and slalomed though a group of toddlers playing tag between the chairs.

Only a few paces in and already my hair was wilting in the humidity.

The Jade Garden was our “local”. Our family ate yum cha here every Sunday, and we’d become as much an institution as the restaurant itself. We had our own table near the back. A good spot: far enough not to be bothered by the toilets but close to the kitchen where the servers were forced to pass near the table, their trays stacked with bamboo steamers of fragrant dim sum, or pushing their carts of coconut jellies, turnip cake and sticky rice.

I glanced back at Fin, so tall and fair, striding though the restaurant. Diners shunted their chairs closer to the tables to let him through.

Just brunch, I told myself.

“Lucy!” my sister called. She tapped the table to alert my parents, her mouth forming the words “She’s here.”

I drew in a breath. Pushed my shoulders back. Approached the table like it was any other Sunday. “Hey, sorry we’re late.”

Dad got to his feet, and Fin glided in and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, sir.” He gave Mum a nod. “Mrs Yun.”

Respectful without being too effusive. So far, so good.

I pulled out my chair, used a napkin to wipe the smear of grease off the plastic-covered upholstery, and sat down.

My baby sister, Julie, patted my hand under the table. All right for her. My brother-in-law, Pete, was half-Chinese. When he’d joined us for yum cha that first time, there’d been no need for her to upskill him on all the traditions, the expectations. That was half the battle right there. And of course, when baby Kinsa had come along, my parents had promptly turned to congee and the deal was done.

Fin crouched next to the highchair. “Hello again, young lady!” he said, letting the baby grab his index finger. He waggled it a bit, shaking my niece’s chubby arm and making her giggle before taking the seat next to me.

“So Finlay, Lucy tells us you’ve never been to yum cha before,” my mother said, while I twirled the lazy Susan a full circle, pouring green tea for everyone.

“Not here, but I’ve been a couple of times.” Fin rattled off the names of a couple of swanky European-styled eateries serving dim sum.

My mother nodded and took a cup of tea off the turntable. “Jade Garden is much better. More authentic,” she said. “Is there any dish you particularly like?”

Fin shook his head. “Fish, beef…whatever you choose is fine with me. I’m not fussy.”

My sister tutted. She placed a prawn cracker on the plastic tray for Kinsa.

“We’ll get a selection,” my mother said.

Dad was already ordering up a storm. Dishes of prawn rice-noodle rolls, fried taro dumplings, pork ribs, roast duck and stuffed eggplant were all but thrown onto the table, each server stamping the bill like a judge with a gavel.

“Dad, that’s enough,” I said when we could barely see the tablecloth through the plates. “We’ll never get through all these dishes.”

My mother raised her eyebrows.

I pretended not to notice. Yes, my parents could afford it; it wasn’t the point. In parts of the world, people were starving; there was no need for all this excess.

“We should order the chicken feet, though, Norman,” my brother-in-law said.

My head whipped up. I felt my shoulders tense.

Across the table, Pete looked at me, his eyes twinkling like it was a great joke.

“Yes, yes, chicken claws,” my mother said. “I almost forgot. They’re very good here. Fin might like to try them, Norman.”

I wanted to scream. Did we have to do this every time I bought someone to yum cha?

Except Fin wasn’t just anyone, and my family knew it.

It was too late, anyway; my father was dutifully hailing the server. Trundling over with her trolley, she parked alongside us and lifted the lid off the dish, releasing a billow of steam. As the white cloud dissipated, the dish of twice-cooked claws emerged. Plumped and gelatinous, they were arranged lengthwise on a bed of salty black bean sauce.

Leaning in to take a look, Fin almost pulled a face—the one you make when you step on something unpleasant in the street—but then his nearly-grimace vanished and he smiled.

“Chicken feet,” Pete announced, helping himself to one.

“They’re sometimes called phoenix claws,” my sister added. “You should try them. They’re very good.”

“Good luck, too,” Pete quipped, licking his lips. “Often served at weddings…” He let the sentence hang.

“Fin, you don’t have to,” I insisted. “Not everyone likes them; they’re a bit of an acquired taste. An unusual texture.”

All around the table, the family’s eyes were glued on him.

“Of course, I want to try one.” Fin reached out and seized a slimy claw in his chopsticks. His chopstick-handling experience was limited, so it took him two goes to grasp one, but eventually he popped it into his bowl.

“Eat, eat,” my mother said.

Dad lifted his bowl and mimed eating.

Kinsa rapped on her plastic tray table with a spare chopstick.

My sister reached out to stop her.

I held my breath.

Fin lifted the morsel above his head, the fat claws dangling. “I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to…”

“Aileen!”

“Lynn, Rhys!” exclaimed my mother. She pushed her chair back.

With a chorus of plastic squeaks, we all stood as my father’s former business colleague and his wife passed by the table, the older generation blocking the aisle with their how are yous, and, it’s been too long. All work, work, you know? How are the children? Yes, Kinsa’s Julie’s girl. Twenty-one months already. So lucky: the children bring us so much joy…

“And this is Lucy’s friend, Fin,” Mum said finally. She gestured across the table.

“Oh,” Lynn said.

Missing Lynn’s pitying look, Fin wiped his face and hands with a napkin, then leaned over and shook Rhys’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Boy’s a plumber,” Dad said. “Runs his own business.”

Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “Handy to know,” he replied, releasing Fin’s hand.

“Eat, eat, please,” Lynn said at last, a signal that they were moving on. There were the usual exhortations to please join our table, but Lyn and Rhys insisted friends were expecting them on the other side of the restaurant.

When they’d gone, we sat down and replaced our napkins on our laps.

Where were we? Everyone looked at Fin.

“Well? How was your chicken foot?” Pete said.

Fin nodded. “It was great. Really tasty.”

There was silence. Everyone expected more.

Fin pushed his tongue into his cheek, creating a lump. “Um… the black beans definitely gave them some bite,” he said.

“Have another one,” Pete said. The bloody traitor. I glowered at him.

“No, thanks,” Fin said cheerfully. “I should probably leave some room for one of these yummy egg tartlets.” He reached over and picked one up with his fingers, popping it straight in his mouth.

“Did you catch the game yesterday?” Pete said.

His mouth chock-full of eggy custard, Fin took a moment to reply. “A bit of a nail-biter, wasn’t it?” he said finally. He brushed a flake of buttery pastry off the tablecloth.

“More rice, Kinsa?” Mum said.

And just like that, Fin had passed the family chicken-foot litmus test. I couldn’t believe it’d been so easy.

---

It wasn’t until Tuesday morning, when I got around to doing the washing and found the remains of the claw in the pocket of Fin’s jeans, that I realised I’d been kidding myself. You didn’t blend two cultures without some conflict, no matter how progressive and modern you thought you were.

I’d been sorting the laundry slung in the basket at my place, checking his pants’ pockets for stray packets of tissues, after that last time when my entire wash had been inundated with tiny fluffs of grey paper and I’d had to run the rinse cycle again—twice. I drew my hand back quickly, puzzled at the slick wetness, but Fin wasn’t there to ask, so I had no choice but to thrust my hand into the denim a second time. I drew out the parcel. Partially wrapped in its Jade Garden napkin, the chicken claw was still plump and gooey. Grey and slug-like. It smelled like roadkill.

Startled, I dropped it on the floor. Stepped back and stared at it.

My heart rapped out a beat. Didn’t eat it. Didn’t eat it. In fact, rather than eat it, Fin had gone to great lengths to hide the chicken foot in his pocket.

I whipped into the bathroom to rinse my hands, grabbing supplies from under the sink to clean up the mess. Then I balled up the remains in a paper towel and blotted the carpet to remove the grease, careful not to rub too hard and damage the pile.

So Fin hadn’t eaten the chicken’s foot. It wasn’t like it was significant. Nope. There was nothing disrespectful in that: he just wasn’t partial to the taste. It was understandable. When the leathery yellow coating was stripped off the spindly limbs, and the nude phalanges were all steamed and plumped up, they looked like severed human hands. Then there was the gelatinous texture and all those tiny knuckle bones you had to slurp your tongue around to fully appreciate the flavour. Let’s face it, they weren’t everyone’s cup of tea.

But, deep down, I felt this niggling sense of betrayal, like his not eating the chicken foot was a rejection of my Chinese self. Of my family. Of me.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

I blotted furiously at the carpet, squeezing out the excess liquid. I was being ridiculous. Lots of people didn’t like Brussels sprouts either and no one made a song and dance about that. Why did my love life always have to boil down to this stupid family superstition? I had two university degrees, for goodness sake. And a job in the city. Well, I didn’t have to let family tradition define me. Fin and I were in love, and, despite the rom-com cliché, love really does overcome all. I wadded up the soiled paper towels and stuffed them in the bin.

As for the chicken foot: I tossed the grisly parcel in the toilet bowl, pressed the button, and watched it flush away.

---

Now that Fin had come once, there was no reason for him not to accompany me to yum cha every week. We were a couple. A thing. And since it was my duty to spend time with my parents, it became his duty, too.

When Dad next ordered chicken feet some weeks later, they came with a spicy hot sauce made with ginger, chili, cinnamon, and star anise. “Here,” he said to Fin when the server had placed the steaming dish on the table, “have a chicken foot.” Taking up a clean pair of chopsticks, Dad popped a large claw in Fin’s bowl. The foreleg dangled over the side, leaking dark red sauce onto the tablecloth.

I should’ve been pleased. It was a lovely gesture on Dad’s part: a sign of respect and hospitality for a guest.

“Um, Dad…”

“What?” Dad said, blinking. “He liked them last time.”

“Yes, but those claws were mild; this dish is really hot and spicy,” I said. “Kiwis don’t like spicy food.”

Mum shushed me with a nudge. “It’s just one,” she said. “Anyway, the red sauce is good luck.”

“It’s okay,” Fin said, eyeing his bowl dubiously. “I don’t mind if it’s a bit hot.” His shoulders slumped. Just a little but enough for me to notice. He didn’t want to eat it.

“See? He doesn’t mind,” Mum said.

Kinsa chose that moment to do her best rock band impression, turning her bowl upside down and drumming on it with her chopsticks.

“Julie,” Mum said, her lips tight, “you really must stop Kinsa from doing that; it’s not very ladylike.”

While Mum confiscated Kinsa’s chopsticks and Julie righted the bowl, Pete cajoled the baby with a piece of pork crackling. Kinsa wasn’t having a bar of it, batting away the crackling with her baby fist.

“Excuse me,” Dad said, hailing a server who was hurrying past with one last bamboo steamer of roast pork buns.

Everyone was distracted. Quick! I plucked the chicken claw from Fin’s bowl and stuffed it in my mouth, crunching down on the spongy bones, the spicy sauce burning the membranes of my mouth.

Fin’s eyes widened.

I ignored him. I had to get rid of it. My eyes watering, I gobbled up the claw, sliding the bones out of my mouth and onto his side plate with my chopsticks. By the time Julie had Kinsa sorted and Dad had turned back to the table, the chicken foot was just a pile of grey bones on Fin’s plate.

“You polished that off pretty quick,” Pete said, taking up his own chopsticks again. He levelled the tips against his teeth and selected a stuffed mushroom.

Fin took a sip of his tea.

My mouth was an inferno, but what could I do? My love life was a litany of boyfriends-past who’d failed the chicken-feet test. Before Fin, there’d been Sean, who’d insisted from the get-go that he hated Chinese food. Refused to even taste it, just declared he didn’t eat “that stuff” then sat and watched while everyone else ate. He didn’t get why that might have been offensive. To be fair, we never really discussed it. I knew straight away that it wasn’t going to work; he simply wasn’t prepared to compromise. Then there was Sam, the D&D guy, who’d insisted on playing with his food, waving the claws around in his chopsticks like they were a talisman of the Dark Lord or something. Even that hadn’t been as bad as Brendan, lovely, enthusiastic, well-meaning Brendan, who’d politely eaten the proffered phoenix claws then vomited on the floor. He’d retched first a few times, so we could all see it coming. Poor Brendan: it was like watching a baby bird, his mouth open and his body heaving and convulsing, before he finally regurgitated the gummy claw—along with a portion of beef noodle and the masticated remains of a half-dozen sui mai dumplings. I liked him, but it’d been hard to erase the memory. Even now, I can still see the splashes of churned up vomit on the tablecloth.

Stifling the urge to gag, I swallowed down the remains of my mouthful.

---

The first claws turned up on Wednesday: four spindly yellow-coated limbs. I found them in my kitchen sink. At first, I thought they were a prank: a sick joke left by Pete, or maybe even Fin. But Pete would’ve dropped by just to see my reaction, and I doubted Fin even knew where to buy them. I was ravenous, and it seemed a shame to waste them, so I clipped off the curled toenails with a pair of kitchen shears, peeled away the yellow skin, and boiled them up for dinner.

There were four more in the sink when I got up the next day. I found another four congealing in my handbag. If Pete was behind it, I’d kill him. Only, in my heart I knew it wasn’t Pete. Kinsa was barely two; there was no way a sleep-deprived dad would get up that early for a prank he wouldn’t see play out. Besides, Pete didn’t have a key to my place.

I bundled up the chicken claws and stuck them out back in the compost bin.

By Friday, my rubbish bin was overflowing. I had to arrange for an additional collection, but even though I paid the extra fee, the council wouldn’t collect more than twice a week. The compost was already full and I shouldn’t have been putting meat waste in there, anyway—the couple over the back fence had left a note complaining about the smell.

I had no choice but to eat them.

I cooked the claws in batches of forty. With a growing sense of dislocation, I boiled and soaked them. Boiled and soaked. Boiled and soaked. I stayed up until the sink was empty. After a week, my freezer was loaded with stiff white claws. I had containers of cooked claws stacked on every shelf in the fridge.

With barely any space for anything else, I was eating them for every meal. It was all I could do to keep the house clear of them. No sooner had I emptied the sink and they were back again.

Keeping them hidden from Fin was even harder.

I started leaving work early to clear away the piles of withered claws that had appeared while I was out. Then, one Thursday, our usual takeout night, Fin arrived with a massaman lamb curry. The spicy odour made my mouth water. By now, I was practically living on chicken feet. grinding my way through plate after bony plate of them. I’d eaten hundreds of the gangly appendages with their severed-rodent-tail sinews. Chewed on enough mouthfuls of glutinous white paste to make me want to gag. No wonder my focus wavered when the smell of curried lamb permeated the kitchen.

I didn’t see Fin head to the fridge for a drink.

“What this?” he said, opening a plastic Tupperware where three dozen claws were soaking in vinegar. He peeked into the container.

Hurrying over, I pushed him aside and thumped the lid down. “They’re chicken feet,” I said, shoving the container to the back of the shelf.

Fin stepped backwards with a look of disgust. He pressed his back against the counter. “I can see that,” he said. “Why do you have so many?”

Thrusting a beer at him, I slammed the fridge shut. “They were on special. And I like them,” I insisted.

“Luce, it’s fine,” he said, straightening up. “I’m not going to tell you what you can and can’t eat.” But when he cracked open his beer, the sound, like an accusation, bounced around the kitchen. He threw the cap in the bin.

Later that evening, when Fin had gone home and I was clearing away the takeout containers, I spied the shiny bottle cap floating on a sea of chicken limbs.

---

The following weekend, Fin stayed over. For once, I wasn’t obsessing about my wobbly thighs. It was late, and we were making love. We’d been going at it for a while when I lifted my chin…and caught sight of a line of chicken feet on the headboard.

I twisted my neck. There were four of them, grey pulpy chicken claws, tiptoeing across the mahogany. What the hell?

I glanced at Fin. Above me, his hips grinding, he had his eyes closed.

The chicken feet danced back and forth across the headboard.

Desperate to keep him from seeing them, I lifted my own hips and threw my head back, deliberately allowing him to ram me into the headboard. The thud sent the chicken feet flying backwards. I heard them skitter down the wall.

Immediately, Fin pulled up, walking his hands back and lifting his weight off me. “Luce?” he said, his face pinched with concern. “Ohmigod, did I hurt you?”

“It’s fine,” I said grumpily, my crown smarting from the whack. “I’m not made of porcelain.” We snuffled down the bed and carried on for a bit, but the mood was gone and I’ve never been great at faking enthusiasm.

Eventually, Fin rolled off me.

He sat up, his back to the headboard. “What’s going on, Luce? Have I done something to upset you?”

“I said, I’m fine.”

He frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”

I turned on my side and squashed my face to his chest, my arm draped over his hips. “I’m fine,” I whispered.

He lifted a hand to stroke my hair. “Luce, come on. We need to talk. You’ve been acting really weird. If I’ve done something—”

“You won’t eat chicken feet,” I blurted.

“What?”

I sat up and pulled the sheet over my breasts, folding my arms across the cotton fabric. “It’s a family tradition,” I confessed. “To see if you’ll fit in.”

“Hang on.” He twisted sideways to look at me. “Let me get this straight: you’re saying if I don’t eat those slimy chicken claws, that somehow proves I’m not worthy of you?”

I traced a crease in the sheet with my finger. “Not exactly.”

“What then? If I don’t eat them, it’s a rejection of your Chinese background?”

I took a deep breath. “I know it sounds crazy—”

“Luce, I just don’t think they’re my thing, you know?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, I see. I’m supposed to suck it up, am I? Is that why the fridge is stuffed full of the creepy things?” He got out of bed and stormed to the bathroom. While he was gone, I whipped my head around, checking the headboard. Apart from a few greasy footprints, there was nothing to suggest the chicken feet had been there.

Fin returned. He put on his boxers and climbed into bed. “You do realise, how racist this all sounds?” he said.

I leaned forward and grasped his hand, letting the sheet slip. “I know, I know. It’s not meant to be like that. I don’t even know how it all started; it was just a bit of fun really. Somehow, it’s gotten out of control.”

So out of control.

“You do know that if this scenario was reversed, there’d be an outcry. What if we turned this on its head, and I made you eat something Kiwi, like Marmite sandwiches?”

“I am Kiwi, and I love Marmite sandwiches.”

“That’s not the point. Imagine you didn’t. Imagine you had to eat Marmite every day for the rest of your life.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to eat chicken feet every day!”

“Luce…”

I swallowed. “I’d do it for you,” I said quietly.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. Then he leaned over and flicked off the light. “Good night, Luce.” The mattress shifted beneath me as he turned to face the door.

In the morning, when Fin had left for work, I checked under the bed. A crowd of sightless white chicken feet stared at me from the gloom.

---

I called Julie. Asked her to meet me for lunch. Luckily, she came alone, leaving the baby with Pete’s parents for a few hours.

“What’s up?” she said, cutting into her roasted vegetable stack. She leaned closer. “Are you pregnant?”

“No!” I told her about the zombie chicken feet. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “They’re everywhere. Just this morning, I opened the refrigerator and found an entire chill drawer full of them.”

Julie stopped eating, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Hungry ghosts,” she whispered. “You must have angered the ancestors.”

My heart lurched. “Ghosts! How?”

“I don’t know. They usually turn up after a woman has been greedy, don’t they? The selfish wife who eats before her husband’s guests, the woman who steals away the best portion of the meal for herself—that sort of thing.”

Why was the culprit always a woman? And since when did my sister know so much about Chinese customs?

I put my knife and fork down and pushed away my plate. “A few weeks ago, at yum cha, I ate a chicken foot from Fin’s rice bowl,” I said.

Julie arched an eyebrow.

I snorted. “That’s just dumb. Is it greedy to want a man who isn’t Chinese?” I was a third-generation true-blue Kiwi; I knew more words in M?ori than in Chinese, owned a pair of gumboots, ate Gingernuts, and understood the off-side rule. Why shouldn’t I choose to love a Kiwi bloke? “Anyway,” I said, “there are no such things as ghosts.”

Julie folded her napkin and placed it on the table. “Do you love Fin, Luce?”

“Of course I love him. What kind of question is that?”

“Well, if you love him, I guess you’ll just have to live with it.”

“But there has to be a way of stopping them. I can’t stand it anymore. They’re suffocating me.”

Julie eyed me sadly.

“Julie?”

My sister pushed back her chair and opened her purse, revealing a decaying fish head in a plastic Ziplock bag. “Pete doesn’t like the eyes,” she said.

---

Things got worse. Terrified that Fin would find out, I resigned from my job at the accountancy firm and didn’t bother to work out my notice. I told myself it wasn’t forever, just until Fin and I sorted things out. I was both Kiwi and Chinese; as soon as he accepted that—as soon as he voluntarily ate a chicken foot, one measly little chicken foot—things would go back to normal. We went to yum cha every Sunday, so it had to happen eventually.

In the meantime, the claws consumed me.

Every morning, my sink would be overflowing with chicken feet, their torn tendons trailing beads of blood along the bench. Sobbing, I would crunch through a plateful for breakfast. It made no difference. By the time I’d finished eating, the sink would be full again. I stuffed the excess limbs into shopping bags, then drove to the supermarket and hurled the bags into the dumpster behind the building. It was a good tactic. There were lots of dumpsters.

Once, Julie phoned me while I was out, but I was too busy driving around the city with my back seat crammed with bags; I didn’t have time to reply.

“Call me back,” her voicemail pleaded. She might have mumbled something about Kinsa and crackling before the message cut out. I fished a handful of chicken feet out of my handbag and put the phone back. When I got home, the sink was full again.

In desperation, I phoned the Jade Garden.

“Can I help you?” the hostess said breezily, and I almost died of relief. “We still have bookings available for today,” she went on.

“No, that’s not why I called,” I said, swallowing down the waves of gooey claw juice welling in my mouth. “I don’t know what to do with all these chicken feet.”

“Chicken feet? For our in-house recipes, copies of our Jade Garden cookbook are available from reception, or, alternatively, you can purchase online from our website.”

“I don’t want the damned book. It’s these chicken feet—”

“If you prefer to eat at home, you can order our famous phoenix claws through Uber Eats…”

I hung up.

---

Fin turned up unexpectedly one lunchtime. “I stopped in to see you at work,” he said. “They said you left.”

I slid a bag of chicken claws under the sofa with my foot.

He strode over and grasped me by the arms. “Lucy, what’s wrong? Please tell me. Are you ill?”

“No.” I twisted away from him, indignant. “Things have been crazy lately. I just needed some time to… I don’t know, find myself.”

“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you discuss this with me?”

I sighed. Of course he didn’t understand. And what was the point in talking when he clearly had no interest in tradition or duty or sacrifice?

Would it have killed you to eat one fucking claw?

“We’re just not communicating,” Fin said. He wiped his face with his hands. “I want to help, but I can’t get you to talk to me.”

How could I tell him that I didn’t have time? I had to get him out of the house. I was expecting the plumber—his competitor—to turn up at any moment to clear out the drains.

The plumber, when he came, had scratched his head. “Never seen anything like it,” he said. “Your pipes are crammed with tiny bones.”

I thought it’d be over. Another fail clocked up in the tally of rejected lovers. Except my breakup with Fin hadn’t stemmed the flood of chicken feet. Instead, raw limbs had started to appear daily in my bathtub, their fingers outstretched and the stump still slick with blood. Recently, I’d spotted the curved nails protruding from the soil around my indoor plants, too.

So maybe it hadn’t been about Fin, after all.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘It’s not you; it’s me,’” I’d told Fin as I showed him to the door that last day.

“Actually, Luce,” Fin had said softly, his eyes wet with tears, “I think it’s you.”

I didn’t have time to get sentimental. In the kitchen, the microwave pinged, letting me know that a fresh batch of claws was ready to eat.