During an autumn street fair in a small town with woodsy parks, fallen leaves rustle as if whispering a warning. On shaded sidewalks, a little girl holds two giant ice-cream cones of perfectly packed triple scoops in chocolate and strawberry. She walks down Main Street toward her mother. A stranger with a hunting knife approaches the girl and beheads her ice-cream cones. The chocolate and strawberry scoops splatter on the sidewalk, and everyone except the girl is screaming. The girl is silent while falling into me, the sugared woman. I work in the candy factory on Main Street. Here, under cellophane, lollipops gleam like my dreams. Working in the candy factory, smelling warm vanilla sugar, girls want to eat the air, to kiss each other deeply, to secretly taste each candied breath like a treat until the manager says, I could eat you alive. The girls giggle as I think of the man with the knife. Terrified of rancid teeth on their flesh, they ask me if being devoured is a fate worse than death. I tell them that the madness of the flesh is only natural, a feeling some have for the young, and when the girls grow older, their flesh will no longer inspire madness.