She collects hearts in jars along her windowsills. She tells me they’re pig hearts, the hearts of pigeons, or wild boars. The largest one is the size of a small television, it sits in a fat jar of bluish liquid on the sill over her kitchen sink. Sometimes, I see it beat. When we first met, she told me it was the heart of the last known dinosaur - a ceratopsian, she said, and I chanted the word in my head until I could find the meaning - but I think it was the heart of her first kill. I am waiting until I think she’s forgotten the lie she’s told and mistakenly admits the truth.