The heel of my hand on her cheek crunches as it lands. Shocked, my sister Kristin continues laughing after the slap, the blue blood egg gradually forming under her eye. All around us, bonfires light the fields at twilight.
“It’s our fault,” I say.
Last night, setting out across the fields carrying our heels, the lights of the truck stop nestled into the curve of the distant motorway.
Stopping at the fence, seeing the warning signs and tape, I looked to Kristen. She was already halfway over, grinning at the cows looking on. The next fence was the same, and the next.
Hiding our wellingtons at the edge of the rows of sleeping articulated lorries; we’d hitched up strapless tops and edged on shoes under white lights.
We’d done it a thousand times. Sometimes foreign drivers gave us pills that made the night last a lifetime, or made the sky explode. Sometimes we’d take cash to go into their cabs. Mostly they bought us food and drink. I’d followed Kristin into it.
Today, the helicopter shots on television showed our path traced by smouldering livestock and men in fluorescent overalls.
“Foot and mouth,” I say as I hit her again.