I glance over at Otto. Apparently he’ll be eating a kidney. “It’s alright,” I tell him, “I ate one last night. They taste better than the rest.” He glares at me, his eyes gray and his face in shadow. He unwraps the toad tongue and raises his kidney to his thin lips, takes a bite. I take my heart in my hands but get caught up watching Otto. He smiles for the first time since the ass goblins took us from Kidland.

“Eat! Eat! Eat!” Otto spits a kidney stone. The toad on his lap snatches it up and disappears between his legs, down into the tree stump. I didn’t even know Otto had kidney stones. Maybe that’s what has upset him so much. I hope he feels better now. The toad sitting on me slaps my face three times in a row, smearing bile. I wipe the back of my left hand across my lips, but the toad slaps me again. The toilet toad is forcing me to eat with my lips covered in coppery-sour fluids. Best to finish fast. Fortunately my heart is small. I swallow half in one bite. Chew, chew, chew, vomit rising in my throat, chew some more, swallow. Satisfied, the toilet toad returns to its home. Subdued by agony, I choke down the second half.

The ass goblins stagger through the bathroom to ensure that every toilet toad is gone and that all children have eaten their dinner A few stumps down from Otto, a little girl holds something bloody in her hands. My vision is bad, but I know the mystery meat is supposed to be her dinner. She might be newer to Auschwitz. New kids usually have the most trouble stomaching their own organs.