The room was stark, underground, the lower level of an old medical facility. The floor was made of checkered linoleum tiles, alternating black and pale green squares, and the walls were exposed brick. A fluorescent light flickered overhead and buzzed.

There was a man in the room. He was leaning against the wall, one foot up against the brick behind him and staring down at the linoleum tile. He wore a thick apron and leather welding gloves that covered the bottom half of his tattooed forearms. Next to him was the metal door of an incinerator built into the wall. A brick chimney reached up and disappeared into the ceiling above.

A sound from the hallway leading into the room broke the tattooed man from his spell. A freight elevator clanging to rest. The doors opened and there was a metallic squeaking of cart wheels echoing down the brick hall. He looked toward the entranceway and began chewing the gum in his mouth like a cow remembering its cud.

Another man came in pushing a steel cart. He too wore an apron and leather gloves.

“Got another one,” he said.

“What’s it today?” the tattooed man replied.

“Little one.”

Using his leg to push himself from the wall, the tattooed man walked over to the cart. Resting on top was a neat cardboard box, perhaps large enough to contain a cat or small dog. He lifted the lid of the box and looked inside. “You catch the game last night?” he asked, not looking up.

“Naw,” the other man replied. “Me and the old lady went to her folks’ place. They was havin’ some friends over for dinner. Cooked up some fish her old man caught day before yest’day.”

The man with the tattoos didn’t acknowledge. He picked up the cardboard box and carried it over to the incinerator, placing it lightly on a small table beneath the controls and removed what was inside: a small form wrapped in linen. He unraveled it and examined the placid face and closed eyes. Then he grabbed it by the legs and held it up by its haunches like you might a felled hare to have a good look.

“I never understood havin’ no kids.” he said. “Seems like a real pain if you ask me.”

Still dangling the kindling by its legs, the man with the tattoos opened the incinerator door. Inside was a large metal bowl and he fetched it and laid the quiet creature into the dish and slid the dish back into the empty metal tomb and began closing the door.

“Blanket,” the man behind the cart said.

The tattooed man paused a moment. Then he reached into the carboard box and tossed the linen covering into the metal bowl atop the cold remains. He closed the incinerator door and ignited the furnace.

“Weren’t nothin’ to eat this mornin’ at the house,” he said.

The observation port showed the dark metal inside turn a glowing red. The fiery light reflecting deep inside the tattooed man’s stare. He remembered his cud.

“Might stop by the Piggly Wiggly on the way home,” he said.

And the man behind the cart said nothing.

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