POACHED

The ad said $18,000 and up to $35,000 for in-demand egg donors, which was more than I’d ever made in a whole year. It was more than anyone in Gold Hill made, at least that I knew, but the cut-off age was 28 so I only had until April. But what did they mean by “in-demand?” Like, Harvard-educated? Shit, I’m sure they at least wanted someone with a college degree so maybe I was out. Or did they mean something like beautiful? That always matters, nobody wants an ugly baby. I’d been on Homecoming Court back in high school, so there was that. 

Once I got into the application, I started to figure it out. Yeah, degrees—advanced degrees—were important, but they were also asking for SAT scores, awards won, height, weight, and not just medical conditions but the medical history of just about everyone in my family. Some things I could lie about. Who had their SAT score anymore? And they couldn’t prove I hadn’t won a bunch of ribbons in 4-H or whatever. Plus, it’s not like they were gonna hunt down my parents and find out they were tracked-up junkies who spent more time in County than not. If I couldn’t find them for going on ten years now, how would they? Or maybe I’d just say they died in a car crash. Nobody would press a grieving young woman to talk about such gut-wrenching, heartbreaking details. Hell, maybe that’s why I needed the money in the first place, how would they know? 

But when it came to race, to ethnicity, to identity, that’s where it got tricky. I clicked “American Indian/Native American” by mistake—why wasn’t white the first option (isn’t that what most people are anyway?), like how the United States is always first in a drop-down menu?—and it popped up with dozens, no, hundreds of different tribes. Jackpot. That’s where the money was. People wanted those Indian babies. Exotic but not, you know, foreign. They’re still American. I’d seen a meme one Thanksgiving about how they were being sold for something like ten dollars a pop in the fifties. Every white family wanted one, their own little living Indian doll. 

And anyway, I remember my dad once told me his grandmother, or maybe it was great-grandmother, was some kind of Cherokee royalty. So, Cherokee. That was it. Besides, Cherokees were supposed to be pale-skinned, some with light eyes like mine. Miley Cyrus, Angelina Jolie, Blake Lively, and I think even Johnny Depp said they were Cherokee and they’re hot, so that could totally work. Plus, I’ve got the dark hair and sharp cheekbones. Who was gonna check?  

Apparently, the agencies checked. I almost didn’t pick up when I got a call that just said “Ashland,” that bougie-ass town so close to California it might as well be. But what the hell. It’s not like I had anything else to do. My hours bagging groceries at Ray’s had been cut so steep I wasn’t even sure I worked there anymore. “Is this Miss Beth Barron?” the chipper voice on the other end asked. 

“Uhm, yeah …” 

“Good afternoon, this is Vicky calling from The Golden Nest Clinic. I’m reaching out about your application to join our egg donor program.” 

“Yeah …” 

“I noticed you selected ‘American Indian’ on your application. I need to confirm whether you are currently enrolled?” 

“Uhm …” I ran my fingers through my hair. My very dark, very American Indian hair. What did they want to hear? “Enrolled in what?” 

“In a federally or state recognized tribe …”  

Shit. I could hear the doubt creep into her voice. “Uhm … yes?”  

“I see. Well, then I regret to inform you that we will not be able to proceed with your application.” 

“What? Why—”  

“This policy is not unique to Golden Nest, it is consistent across all clinics nationwide. Under the Indian Child Welfare Act, the reproductive material of tribally-enrolled Native Americans is considered to be under the jurisdiction of their respective tribe. Unfortunately, this means your eggs are legally regarded as belonging to the tribe rather than solely to you as an individual. My apologies, I know this is not the news you wanted to hear.” 

“What the fuck?” Jesus, I shouldn’t have said I was enrolled. Hannah Montana wouldn’t have been this stupid. 

“I completely understand how disappointing this must be. Many Native American women aren’t aware of this nuanced aspect of the Indian Child Welfare Act when they begin exploring egg donation. To clarify, ICWA doesn’t explicitly address this situation, but it does exist in something of a legal gray area. Unfortunately, however, it can be interpreted in this way, and agencies prefer to err on the side of caution to avoid potential complications.” 

“Complications like what?” I could already see all the things I’d planned to buy with that thirty-some-thousand draining through my fingers. The actual apartment instead of this shit trailer. A car lease, new clothes, maybe even some new boobs. I could feel it slipping away. 

“The concern primarily revolves around the potential legal risk that a tribe might assert a claim over any children born from this process. This stems largely from issues such as the events like those of the 1960s.” 

“So, wait. You’re telling me I don’t have rights over my own body?” This was starting to sound like some Hunger Games or Birth Yard bullshit.  

“It isn’t … well, it’s complicated, that’s all I can say. I do apologize, Miss Barron.” She really did seem sorry about it. And it wasn’t her fault, not really. 

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “Fuck, I could have really used that money.” 

“I understand, and I want to express my deepest sympathies. I reviewed your application and am truly sorry to hear about your parents.”  

“It’s, uhm … thanks, yeah. They were gonna co-sign on a loan for me to go back to college and all, but now …” It was crazy, how cleanly the lies slipped out, like bullets. It’d always been a gift of mine—probably inherited from one of those losers. Genetics and all.  

“Are you the only surviving member of your family, or do you have other close relatives? Do you currently have a significant other, a partner, a boyfriend or girlfriend? I noticed there is no spouse listed in your application.” 

Oh my God! Nosy bitch. “Uh, yes? I mean no. I mean, it’s just me. No family or boyfriend or anything.”  

“No boyfriend, I see. I know how challenging it can be to navigate things, financially, on your own. Miss Barron, I …  probably shouldn’t share this,” she said, her voice dropping so I could barely hear her, “but there is one clinic known for taking on clients like yourself. I can’t provide specific details, including exact figures, but from what I’ve heard, their compensation is quite generous. That said, I can’t make any guarantees regarding their policies or decisions—” 

“Who is it?” I asked, sitting up on the pull-out couch, its springs groaning. “What’s the name?” Now she had my attention.  

“The Reynard Agency, which is located in California—” 

California, great. There’s no way my piece of crap car would make it. “No thanks,” I said, pulling out my vape pen and fumbling to drop the call.  

“Wait! Consider it. I'll send you the link shortly. Since it’s not searchable, you’ll receive it via text from a private number.” Then she was gone. 

Drawing on the pen—“Simply Cake” flavor—a text popped up with an onion link. “You'll need to download the Tor browser to access this if you don’t have it already. Wishing you success!” That lady was goddamned weird. 

“Fuckin’ make me work for it, don’t you?” I muttered, downloading the app as I inhaled the sweet smoke to my core. Who knows? It was worth a look.  

The Reynard Agency was in Eureka. Actually not too far of a drive, less than four hours. Doable. A sleek graphic of a fox perched below the site’s banner, blissfully asleep with its tail curling into the “y” in “Agency.” And the best part? Right on the homepage it was clear: “We exclusively work with Native American egg donors.” I took a hit off the pen, maybe my last for a while if this all worked out, and clicked on the FAQs. 

How much is compensation? “Compensation varies based on individual circumstances, up to $100,000 per successful donation. Contact us today to learn more.”  

“Motherfucker.” My heart hardened into a bomb in my chest. 

It was easy, actually. The forms weren’t nearly as lengthy as Golden Nest’s or any of the other agencies I’d looked at. They only asked for basic info, one picture and—thanks to that pic from last summer where I was so tan people thought I was part Mexican—I looked Indian enough. And while the form did ask about tribal enrollment, it wasn’t a requirement. Thank God, because I had no idea how I would’ve forged that. They even paid for me to get there. And lodging, right on site! The day the money order for transportation costs arrived, just 24 hours after my application was approved, I filled up my tank and headed south. I even had enough left over to buy new sunglasses and a 101 cap at the Love’s just south of the border, right after the fruit check station. I’d been to the Redwoods once as a kid, back when Mom was just on blow and drink, not needles and pills. But somehow the trees looked even bigger now. And I always thought things were supposed to look smaller when you grew up.   

The clinic was discreet, as promised. If they hadn’t described it to me and dropped a pin, I’d have driven right by it thinking it was some massive warehouse or airplane hangar or something. I went to the big red door marked FREIGHT HATCH, that’s all it said, and punched in the code they’d given me in my approval text. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this.  

Inside was gorgeous, all white marble, golden chandeliers, and glitz with shimmery fainting couches that had crystal buttons in the tufts like you see in the houses of rich people on reality shows. The receptionist looked like a Ken doll with his dark blond hair, eyes like the aurora, and just-right scruff. “Miss Barron, I presume?” he asked. 

“Yes! I—sorry, I’m a little late—” Oh my God, stop it! This is what guys in California look like, get over it. 

“No problem at all, Dr. Tyson is happy to wait for you. May I take your jacket?” He stood up, rising like a mountain before me, tremendous. As I tugged it off, he slipped a gift bag into my hand, the tissue paper, a delicate lamé, poking out. “Something to change into before the doctor sees you.” His voice was like butter. “It keeps things simpler and you more comfortable. Allow me to show you to the changing room.” 

It was the size of my entire trailer, but had no mirrors. Just a couch with furry pillows and a locker to put my clothes and purse. Inside the gift bag was an opulent white velvet pair of pajamas, kind of like those vintage Juicy Couture track suits but better, and a matching pair of fuzzy white slippers. It all fit perfectly.  

“Hello?” I said, cracking open the door and peering out. “Uhm, I just leave my stuff in the locker?” He was seated back at the expansive reception desk clicking away at a keyboard, and though he looked up his fingers kept flying. I couldn’t look Ken Doll in the eyes for too long. 

“Perfect! The doctor is ready for you. Right through there.” He gestured with his flawless hand, masculine but not too well-groomed, not girly, towards a set of frosted glass doors that slid open and shut on their own. 

It kind of looked like a typical examination room, but there were differences. The countertop was white quartz with flecks of what seemed to be gold and diamonds buried within. The paintings on the wall were obviously originals, even I could tell—and expensive. They were what you’d expect, charming rural scenes and relaxing animal-themed pieces. Or kind of relaxing, one was of a cock fight, but it was pretty tame. And one frame held a handwritten poem, I guess a draft, by someone named Mary Oliver, but I’d always hated poetry in high school, so I skipped that. All normal-ish stuff. Except one. “Jesus Christ,” I said, making my way to the image in its thick metallic frame. It wasn’t super big, but it managed to loom tremendous in the windowless room. I’d never seen anything like this. What kind of psycho would put this in an exam room? 

“Miss Barron?” the bright voice made me yelp as I turned to face her. “So sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Dr. Tyson, I’ll be taking care of you today.” She had a sleek, slick platinum chignon pulled back severely from her perfect, dewy face. Her bright red lipstick didn’t seem garish or unprofessional, even though it probably should since she was a doctor and everything. It just suited her. 

“No, I’m sorry! I was just …” 

“Ah, yes, the Dalí. Geopoliticus Child. You have good taste.” 

“Yeah, sure,” I said, giving the horrid thing one last glance. 

“Please remove your bottoms, underwear, and you can use this to cover yourself from the waist down,” she said, pointing to a powder blue medical sheet. 

“How long is this going to take?” I asked, slipping off the plush pants to face a chilly nip in the air biting at my thighs. She pulled on a pair of white rubber gloves, her back to me, as I hopped onto the table. 

“Much quicker than other clinics.” 

The general physical was fast and easy. “So, if I pass, how long until, you know …” I began, sprawled on my back and speaking to the too-bright, blinding light overhead, cold stirrups cupping my feet. I could see her head bobbing between my legs, a little yellow buoy in the ocean. 

“If you are a good candidate, you can start today.” Awesome. “Now, the next step is ovarian reserve testing. This will require a transvaginal ultrasound to determine antral follicle count. This won’t hurt at all; it is more comfortable than a routine pap smear. Then I will draw some blood to measure your hormone levels for ovarian function and reproductive potential—E2, AMH, FSH.”  

WTF. I had no idea what any of those letters meant. “So, the results will come—” 

“We have a lab here on site,” she said. “It will take less than two hours. We will also be testing for STIs, hepatitis, and other infections like CMV that might be communicable. If any are positive and treatable, we will treat you before commencing.” She slid the ultrasound wand into me and she was right. It felt straight out of the fridge and it was definitely awkward, but it didn’t hurt. “There is genetic testing and karyotyping to check for chromosome abnormalities, which also requires a blood sample. Genetic testing will show us if you are a carrier of genetic conditions like sickle cell anemia, cystic fibrosis, and Tay-Sachs disease. Unfortunately, DNA testing for race is still a bit controversial when it comes to accuracy, so we use the honor system for those who are unenrolled … for now. Finally, we will test for substance abuse with a blood and hair analysis test. Any illegal drug use or excessive alcohol intake will show up there.” 

“Okay,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut as she retracted the wand from me.  

“Are you concerned about any of these tests?” She peered up, her head seeming to float, bodiless, between my knees. 

“No. I mean I drink sometimes but not a lot. And my parents were—never mind.” 

“Perfect!” she said, standing up and snapping off the gloves. “I’ll just draw the blood and take a hair sample and that’s it. Given the number of vials we need for multiple testing, you might feel a little light-headed afterward, but my assistant will bring in some juice and snacks for you as soon as we’ve finished.” 

It took less than two hours for the results, but in that time I consumed two platters of local fruits as well as a selection of imports that I was told were Ruby Roman grapes and Densuke watermelon slices. Ken Doll delivered all of them, and by the time he came with my third glass of sparkling, non-alcoholic grape juice from a vineyard down in Napa, the butterflies battering my stomach every time I saw him had started to subside a little. Or maybe I just grew used to it. 

When another curt knock came at the door, I expected it to be him again and was considering whether I had enough room for another fruit round. But it was the doctor. “Good news!” she said, her too-white teeth glinting. “Your labs are all cleared and we are ready to move forward. The next step is a series of follicle-stimulating hormone and luteinizing hormone therapy, which requires eight days of injections. Additional blood tests and ultrasounds will be necessary during this time to monitor follicle growth and hormone levels.” 

“Oh! I mean … I didn’t realize … I don’t live here.” Shit, now what was I going to do?  

“That’s absolutely fine! The majority of our donors are not local. We can arrange accommodations for you at our care suites here, which are specifically designed for the convenience of our donors and recipients. These suites provide a hotel-like experience while ensuring access to round-the-clock top-quality care. This is included as part of your compensation package.”  

“Speaking of compensation …” 

“Absolutely! Your lab results are excellent, which qualifies you for the full $100,000 compensation per successful cycle. Based on your results, there’s every indication that your first cycle will be a success.” 

The bomb in my center detonated, unpetaling into sheer ecstasy. 

It was Ken Doll who escorted me through a door I hadn’t noticed before, one in the waiting room that blended right into the abstract art on the wall, a splattering of reds and creams and golds. “So, when can I get my phone back?” 

“No phones in the accommodations,” he said shortly. “Sorry,” he added, clearing his throat. “It’s important that you are not distracted and use this time to relax so that your body best processes the injections.” The hallway was long and bright with an ivory-colored door every few feet, a bit more hospital-looking, but better than any of the motels I’d ever been in. At the end was a bright red door, heavy metal and windowless. 

“What are all these rooms?” I asked as we passed one after another. 

“These are recipient suites,” he said. “For clients who are receiving eggs. Donor accommodations are in another wing. We like to keep a clear divide between the two.” 

That made sense. Who wanted to see where their eggs were going—or where they were from? Nobody wants to see how the sausage is made, or so they say. “So,” I said as he ran several cards through a reader by the metal door. “When does payment happen? The doctor didn’t really say, but I could really use—”  

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he said as the door clanged open to a small vestibule. Before us was a padded door with HH monographed in fancy curlicue.  

“H.H.?” I asked. 

“Herr Hühnerstall.”  

Another swipe of his card opened the thick, quilted-looking door with a shuddering start as the metal door slammed shut behind us. 

Beyond, it was both dark and glaringly bright at the same time, with seemingly thousands of incandescent bulbs strung like stars overhead. Cages upon cages were stacked atop one another, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five high, lining the narrow concrete walkway. They looked like dog kennels but heavier, sturdier. Women were stuffed inside almost all of them, the cages so small they were unable to stand or sit, their flesh squeezing and oozing between the iron rods. Everyone was naked and most were curled on their sides, their backs etched with purple lines and blossoming orbs from the bars they lay upon. A lot of them had hands and feet that were broken, knotted and gnarled around the bars so tightly it was like the skin and bones and iron had become one. Many had IVs and tubes stuck in their arms, some with so many they looked oceanic, alien, as if they had sprouted tentacles. But it was the stench of it that was the worst—those on the lower levels were covered in feces from the ones above, streaks and piles of vileness stuck and protruding from their bodies like fins. The ones on the right of the walkway had some kind of device attached to their nipples, their breasts grotesquely humongous and pressing meanly into the bars. They were bigger than beach balls and freakishly stretched, lumpy, with bags of whiteish milk suspended from the exterior of their cages. 

I opened my mouth, but a sharp sting in my neck rolled me into a blanket of sleep. I could feel his hands, those meticulous hands, dig into my underarms. My slippers fell off as the dragging began. The scratchy floor lapped at my feet like a tiger’s tongue as he pulled me into the false light. And, nearby, the striking of the heavy turn of a lock. 

“Number 333. Lucky.” The voice was familiar, though the phony sweetness had dissipated. Dr. Tyson bent over me, nothing but bars between us, and jabbed a foot-long needle into my thigh. Pain bolted through my limbs, but got lost somewhere in the aching that throbbed at my center. Just a moment ago I’d been cold, too cold, the rodded base of the cage cutting like ice into me. Now it was bright, sizzling, the lights far above warming my bare skin, even with the hordes of cages and women above blocking some of the light like a canopy. “It’ll be ready for the trigger shot soon, the follicles are maturing at a nice pace,” she said to Ken Doll, who jotted notes on a tablet. “Thanks in part to your presence, as always. It's fascinating how the body becomes more responsive to the process when in a state of sexual arousal.” 

“Why—” I began, I tried, but the smallest movement of my tongue triggered a searing pain in my mouth. And that’s when I realized. My tongue was gone.  

“Ah, ah, ah,” she admonished me, tapping a pen harshly on one of the bars so that the clanging surrounded me, a sound bowl of clamor. “The glossectomy is quite fresh. You’ll tear the sutures at the lingual root if you move your mouth during this recovery period, and then you’ll require a second surgery. If this happens, I will not be so humane as to use anesthesia this time around. I swear,” she said with a sigh, turning to Ken Doll, “they do this every goddamned time, like I don’t have enough on my schedule.” 

“Triple-three is Cherokee,” he said, his finger gliding across the tablet. “In high demand. There’s a couple coming from L.A.—”  

“They all say they’re fucking Cherokee,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not even enrolled,” she added, holding out her hand. Ken Doll passed her a long tube and plastic sac from his cross-body bag.  

“Doctor,” he said, puckering his brow, “I thought we were only doing jejunostomy tubes, not the nasoduodenal anymore—”  

“It was a bleeder, Todd,” she said, gripping my hair hard through the bars, her nails slicing into my scalp and forcing my face upward. I tried to swat her away, but found my wrists and ankles were chained to the bottom bars without any give. There was barely enough room to twist from one side to the other. Instead, I wrapped my fingers around the bars and gripped tight, bracing for whatever was to come. “That made the glossectomy challenging enough as is,” she continued. “There was insufficient time to perform a jejunostomy. Its bloodwork revealed the presence of alcohol as well. Drunk Indians—liars, too,—all of them. But it’ll be out of its system by the time the  human chorionic gonadotropin dose is due.” She jammed the tube into my nostril, though my scream was silenced as my mouth filled with blood and torrid pain. I could feel it, the tube snaking down my throat and nestling in my stomach, curled and coiled. “Give it three thousand calories per day. It’s already a good, decent weight, but it can go heavier,” she said, hanging the sack on my cage like a cocoon. “Then we can pump it up to four or five once it turns, oh, thirty I’d say,—its follicles are relatively plentiful for its age—and transitions to lactation fountainhead category.”  

“Yes, doctor.”  

“You know what?” she asked, pinching my breast, my bicep, with her bony fingers. “It has potential to be a broiler once it’s dry; it appears it could achieve significant weight gain. Please make a note for 333 to be considered for transfer to the meat batteries post-harvest, if appropriate. We’ll see how it does as a layer first.” 

His phone buzzed, though he finished his notes before checking it. “Doctor, your noon appointment is here, another Vicky referral. I’ve also received notification of the arrival of a red Jeep in the lot.” 

“What’s this one?” she asked, pushing her glasses with their dainty rose-gold rim up the bridge of her nose. 

“Uh … Klamath. Or so they say.” 

“Enrolled?” 

“No, doctor.” 

“Of course not,” she said with a sigh. “All right, let’s go.” She gave me one last look, but her eyes roamed over me, through me. Appraised me. “It's nearly time for the photoperiod control system to transition to the night cycle, anyway. And you need a moment to pretty up. By the way, you’ve arranged for 333’s car to be chopped, correct?” 

“Yes doctor, they’re picking it up this afternoon.” 

Their voices grew faint, disappearing until the closing of a door erupted like a shotgun through the vast room. “Hey,” I said, or tried to say, to the woman above me. Some kind of mewling crawled out from my lips, but what with the stub of a tongue and the tube that had scathed my throat, anything more was impossible. “Hey, can you hear me?” The glaring lights shut off with a series of clicks, and then there was nothing but blackness. Somewhere, I could hear machines ticking on, draining the lactating women of their milk. Already, it began to grow colder. Goosebumps erupted across my skin. “Are you there?” I asked softly to the darkness, but there was no reply. There was nothing. Nothing but the warm trickle of urine from above that splattered onto my hip and rivered its way down, across my mound, flowed into the crease of my thigh, and fell at last into the shallow tray of waste below. It sounded like rain and it was warm, so there was that. At least in the void, there was warmth.