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Diane starts to get fatter and stronger too. She also starts wearing tight clothes to show it off. She also goes barefoot and stops wearing bras and panties

The changes start slowly. The body notices before Diane does. The noticing is the thing that happens over days — the days after the celebration, the days when Diane does not go home, the days when Diane is on the warehouse floor eating and sleeping and breathing the air that the wish saturates. Diane's jeans fit differently on the third morning. The waistband digs into a belly that was flat two weeks ago — the belly that is now soft, the softness visible through the t-shirt, the t-shirt that rode up during the night and exposed a strip of skin that was not there before. The skin is the thing the body's eyes catch and the catching is the thing that produces the warmth in the chest — the warmth that is recognition, the warmth that is the wish's echo bouncing back through another body.

Diane stands. The standing is the thing that shows the full picture. The thighs are thicker. The ass is rounder — the jeans stretched across it, the seam straining, the fabric that was loose a week ago now contouring to flesh that was not there. The face is softer — the jawline less defined, the cheeks fuller, the neck thicker. Diane's arms are different — not just softer but denser, the forearms carrying a weight that bends the t-shirt's sleeves. The body watches Diane walk to the water container and the walking is the thing that confirms — the gait is heavier, the feet are louder on the concrete, the bare feet that Diane kicked off her shoes two days ago and has not put back on.

'I'm getting fat,' Diane says. The saying is not the thing the body expects. The saying is not horror. The saying is not the voice that says this is wrong. The saying is the thing the body hears — the flat observation, the clinical note, the statement without judgment. Diane's hand is on her belly. The hand is pressing the softness and the pressing is the thing that does not produce a flinch. Diane looks down at her own body and the looking is the thing that takes five seconds and the five seconds is the space where the voice should be and the voice is not there.

The bra comes off on day five. Diane pulls it from under her shirt and the pulling is the thing that drops the bra on the concrete — the beige garment, the industrial structure, the cage the old world built. Diane's breasts are fuller and the fullness is the thing the t-shirt holds now without the bra's support and the holding is visible — the nipples pressing the fabric, the weight of the breasts pulling the shirt's hem lower. The body watches Diane reach under her waistband. The reaching is the thing that produces the underwear — the panties balled in Diane's fist, the panties dropped on the concrete beside the bra. Diane is barefoot. Diane is braless. Diane is pantyless. The tight clothes — the jeans, the t-shirt — are the things Diane wears and the wearing is the thing that shows the body off.

The body grows. The body is always growing. But the body's growth is the thing the body does alone and the alone is the thing that is no longer alone. Diane is on the concrete. Diane's belly is visible between the t-shirt's hem and the jeans' waistband — the strip of soft flesh, the flesh that was not there a week ago, the flesh that is the wish's touch. Diane's feet are bare on the concrete. Diane's hair is unwashed. Diane's hands are rougher — the skin thicker, the grip stronger, the hands that have been eating with the animal and sleeping with the animal and breathing with the animal. The body looks at Diane and the looking is the thing that sees the beginning — the beginning of the thing the body went through, the beginning of the wish's work on a second body, the beginning that is faster because the source is here and the source is 1,040 pounds and the source is the air Diane breathes every second.

The body trains. Diane watches. The watching is the thing that changes on day six — the watching becoming the thing that is not watching. Diane stands. Diane walks to the water container. Diane lifts the container — the container that is forty pounds full, the container Diane could not lift a week ago. Diane lifts it. The lifting is the thing that surprises Diane and the surprise is on Diane's face — the face that is softer, the eyes that are wider, the mouth that opens without speaking. Diane sets the container down. Diane looks at her own arms. The arms that lifted forty pounds without strain. The arms that are not the arms Diane had a week ago. The body sees the looking and the seeing is the thing that fills the warehouse with the warmth that is not arousal and not the addiction and not the wish. The warmth is the thing the body has no name for. The body has never needed a name for it before.