"You can do this." Liz looked down, letting out a long, slow breath. She thought about what this would mean. It went against her very core, but it had to be done, and there wasn't anyone else who could do it for her.
She thought about everything that led her to this point: the migrant workers, suffering under grueling conditions; the hours she spent preparing, the knives she'd sharpened to make it possible.
Nothing prepared her for feeling this way. She'd been a happy kid. She had a pleasant childhood. Her family got along--well, as much as any family can. She went to college, had a good job, had a dog.
But this? This was never part of the plan. She wasn't supposed to have to deal with it. She'd assumed she'd get to keep enjoying her pleasantries.
She sighed.
No, it wasn't supposed to come to this. She eyed the prongs in her hand, poised, ready for the kill. She wasn't going to like this. But it had to get done. Her life was on the line, and she didn't have a choice.
"You can do this," she said, again, as she plunged the sharpened tool and stabbed the first bite of lettuce.
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