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With a shiny carving knife, Maggie slices open the pig’s throat, unleashing a torrent of blood into a plastic bucket.
It turns my stomach and I puke on the barn floor.
“That’s it, sweetie,” Maggie says, a gloved hand rubbing on my back, “let it all out.”
After a minute, my stomach settles and I straighten up. The pig is dead, lying on its side, his head, thankfully, facing the other way.
“You’ll get used to it,” she says. “I was six when I first saw one of our cows killed. My father took me to the slaughterhouse. Said I had to grow up if I wanted to be a real farmer. Told me that this is how cheese burgers are made.” She pauses for a moment, and then smiles. “I almost went veggie after that. But then I saw another get slaughtered. And another. And by ten-years-old, Dad had me worki
