I hadn’t expected Dad to offer us up. The strangers had arrived only the day before. Both men were handsome, to be sure; my sister and I had both noticed. But gorgeous enough to inspire a mob outside our family home? Hardly.

Surveying the crowd, it was the strangest thing. For you, it was just a rabble. For my sister and I, it was the whole world—everyone we’d ever known: Taylor the mason, Pierce the thatcher, Donald the layabout, et al. The world was smaller back then, remember. Our two guests became more beautiful with each catcall—it seemed as much, anyway. Dad was scared and even trembling. The front door was rattling. Then he said it:

“I beg you my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Behold, I have two daughters who have not known man; let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please; only do nothing to these men, for they have come under the shelter of my roof.”

My sister and I looked at one another, at Dad, at the strangers, and again at one another. While it wasn’t the worst proposition we could have imagined, our preference was for our guests, not for our townsfolk. And while memory is always perverted by what happens next, at that moment, I realized Dad really had been noticing us this whole time, and that didn’t upset me.

The door was ready to break and Mom screamed for a savior. The angels stepped up alongside dad and braced themselves. The yells outside changed from those of eager dogs to those of wounded cats. Mom was crying. Dad stepped back from the door. The guests turned their glances to my sister and I and a creeping wetness crawled down my legs.

“Have you anyone else here? Sons-in-law, sons, daughters, or anyone you have in the city, bring them out of the place; in the city, bring them out of the place; for we are ’bout to destroy this place because the outcry against its people has become great before the Lord, and the Lord has sent us to destroy it.”

These words were said to Dad and only him, but I’d never heard anything stated with more certainty. My sister and I’s fiancés did not agree. So the next day, it was just the four of us who headed out. Our guests said goodbye, warning us to not look back, not for our boyfriends, not for them, not for anyone. Running up that hill was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. For us, it was goodbye to the Earth in its entirety and goodbye to the beautiful men who had come down to save us. It was then that my mother looked back. Years later, Abraham would fill us in on the details.

Like the first men after the fall we crawled into a cave to be sheltered and to wait. Our city destroyed, our mother dead, our saviors once again in heaven, we knew not what to do. But yes, the wine was my idea—not my little sister’s.

Tired as we all were, the alcohol didn’t take long to sweep him off his senses. In no time he was calling me by names not my own. I put my hands on his chest and laid him down gently, loosening his clothes while my sister prepared a sponge with warm water. As I bathed him, his hands started wandering over me, traveling up and down my thighs and squeezing my ass. I urged my sister to watch; to learn. Those broad shoulders and strong arms were soon repurposed. Once they had cradled me and kept me up as I learned to walk. Now they guided my hips over what had once been territory known only to his spouse. It was right when he penetrated me that I heard my mother’s name. His lips murmured it as his nostrils took in my scent—so much like hers. I rode him gently as those hands that had fed me for so long now took complete charge of each inch of my body. My sister looked on and wept in jealousy. With his cock still pulsating inside me, I reached back and wrapped my fingers around his nuts. I gripped them knowing they were the very source of my life, and that now, the cycle must continue. With one hand on his chest and another at his sack, I rode him as hard as I could. Casting caution aside, I groaned the word “daddy” once, twice, and again and again. And like that, Daddy filled me, his first daughter.

In the morning, he was hungover and grieving for his wife. It was all he could think about—but there was nothing more to be said. My little sister awaited her turn productively, stretching and meditating. At dusk, I gave her my blessing and told her it was time. With wine, she sat next to our father and put her head on his shoulder. Together they drank and wept for all our family had lost. She struck with less tact than I, pushing him down gruffly and asking, “Am I your wife?” Drunk and confused, Dad replied unintelligibly. Reaching down to his crotch, she again asked, “Am I your wife?” Pulling his hands to her breasts, “Am I your wife?” In time, he was naked and replying “yes.” From there, she took him in her mouth as he drank another glass. Drawing up from him with strands of spit still tying her lips to his cock, she inquired, smirking, “Am I your wife?” He matched her gaze, saying nothing, seeming to perhaps know. She then stood over him, exposing herself to his tongue. Dad feasted, eating everything he could reach before she lowered herself onto him from behind. Like with so many sibling rivalries, my little sister is always striving to outdo me. To that end, she sacrificed her anal cherry to our paterfamilias. I came towards them then, kissing Dad on the lips and tasting my sister while my left hand, once again, wrapped around the part of this man most responsible for giving my sister and I life. Eager to share in my fertility, my sister soon spun around and cleaned her father off the way so many mothers in the animal kingdom clean their young. Once satisfied, she lay on her back and wordlessly told me to guide our father into her last virginal orifice. It was there that Dad shot, pumping and pumping until he was breathless and exhausted.

It was nine months later, to the day, that Moab and Ben-ammi were born.