It wasn’t just that she was pretty, but how—hearty, blond, bountiful. Round-hipped in white blouses. She looked like amber waves of grain, like prize roses and all-you-can-eat. Her legs were an infrastructural feat, something you drive for miles to see. It was patriotic to want to fuck her. If she were to go missing, every news station in America would jump on the story. They’d flash her headshot every hour, on the hour. Posters would list her height, weight, cup size, star sign. Men would call the tip line just to heavy-breathe. After a week she’d be found in a Vegas motel, wearing only a men’s button-down that she’d tied at the waist. The mayor would give her a key to the city. She might get her face on a stamp.