“I can’t believe I have to miss Pig Day,” my twin brother Jeremy complained. He picked at the white medical tape on the back of his hand. The machine next to his bed whirred as it dispensed another drop of clear medicine into the tube attached to his arm.
I shrugged. “It’s just a dead pig,” I said, downplaying my own excitement about the dissection planned for class that day. Pig Day was a rite of passage for all the fourth graders in our school, the first time that many of us would ever touch—or even see—a real live dead thing. Jeremy and I had been looking forward to it all summer, back when the doctors thought he’d be well enough to return to school by the fall.
“You’re gonna video it for me though, right?”
I patted the iPhone in my pocket. “Definitely.”
“Emily!” my mother shouted from downstairs. “Bus is here!”
“Coming!” I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Later, nerd.”
His voice followed me down the hall as I ran for the stairs. “Try not to barf!”
“I’m not gonna barf!”
The truth was, I didn’t know how I’d react to the dissection. I couldn’t imagine poking around in a dead pig’s guts. I wondered how they would feel. Would they be squishy and warm, like spaghetti? Or cold and jiggly, like Jello? My stomach turned at the thought.
I was definitely gonna barf.
It was a small class, only nine students—ten if Jeremy had been there. We gathered around the large table at the front of Mrs. Collins’ science lab, each of us outfitted in plastic smocks, rubber gloves, medical masks, and oversized goggles. We looked like the world’s youngest, most incompetent surgical team.
On the table was a dead pig in a stainless steel tray. I expected the pig to be pink like the ones in the movies, but it wasn’t. Its flesh was a sickly gray color, with a rubbery consistency that reminded me of a popped birthday balloon.
Mrs. Collins held up a scalpel. “Are we ready?” The other students nodded.
“Wait!” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my iPhone, quickly swiping to the camera app. “So Jeremy can see,” I explained. I tapped the Record icon. “Okay, ready.”
“All right! Here we go…” The teacher sliced the skin on the pig’s stomach. I watched through the iPhone, grateful to have a screen between me and the pig. It wasn’t so bad that way, more like watching a YouTube video than something happening in real life.
For the next ten minutes, Mrs. Collins expertly dissected the pig, explaining each organ as she went. They all looked lifeless and gray, especially on the video. But then a glint of bright silver caught my eye.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing my finger at the metallic gleam inside the pig.
“Oh, that!” Mrs. Collins said, smiling. “That, young lady, is the timepiece.” She moved aside another organ to reveal what looked like an antique pocket watch inside the pig.
“The timepiece?” I leaned in to get a closer look. “It looks like a watch.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” She dug her fingers under it and lifted it out of the pig. The thin pink membrane holding it in place stretched, then tore. The timepiece slipped out of the membrane and into the teacher’s palm. It was coated in pale pink slime. She delicately wiped it with a rag until it was clean. “Would you like to hold it? I can record for you.”
I nodded and handed her the phone. She placed the timepiece in my hand, then turned the camera toward me. The timepiece appeared to be made of silver, with a complex pattern carved into its case. Underneath its clear glass lens was an intricate timekeeping mechanism with dozens of interlocking gears. A needle-thin second hand teetered on an axle in the center, pointing to a series of tick marks rimming the edge. The second hand was still. I watched it intently for a few seconds, hoping it would start moving. But it didn’t.
“It’s stopped,” I said quietly. My throat suddenly felt tight. I looked up at the teacher. “Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“Do I have a timepiece?”
“Why, of course. We all have a timepiece.”
“Will mine stop?”
She nodded solemnly. “Someday. But not anytime soon.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re young. You have plenty of time. Now, Mr. Witherspoon, on the other hand…” she said, dropping the name of our curmudgeonly old principal. The rest of the students laughed. I didn’t.
“Take it back.” I thrust the timepiece at the teacher. “I don’t want it.”
Surprised, she lowered the camera and took the timepiece from me. “Oh. Okay. That’s fine—”
A swell of rage exploded in my chest. “I don’t want to have a timepiece!” I yelled. “I don’t want any of us to have a timepiece. I hate that thing. I hate it!” Tears pooled in the rims of my safety goggles. An awkward silence filled the room. “I need to go home,” I mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “Please, can I go home?”
When I arrived back home, I ran up to Jeremy’s bedroom and pushed open the door. An episode of Spongebob was playing on the TV. Jeremy was asleep. I watched him in silence for a moment, listening to the quiet beeping and hissing of the various monitors surrounding his bed. Then I crawled into his bed next to him, being careful not to dislodge the tube in his arm. He stirred. His eyes fluttered open.
“Hey.” His voice was raspy. “How was Pig Day?”
I shrugged. “It was okay.”
“Did you barf?”
“Nope.”
“Then why did you come home early?”
I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at his face. His skin was pale, almost gray. “I just wanted to.”
“What?” He swiped at his nose as if checking for a booger. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” I lay down beside him and stared at the ceiling.
“Can I see the video?”
After a long pause, I said, “Um…”
“Emilyyyy…” he whined. “You forgot?”
“Sorry.”
“You promised!”
“Trust me, you didn’t miss anything.”
“Are you sure?”
I thought about the timepiece, about the thing inside of me—inside of him—ticking away the time, moment by moment, day by day. Then I moved closer to him until I could feel his arm against mine.
“I’m sure.”
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