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I push him toward the door, my boots slipping in the mess of blood and bile streaking the floor. I’ll clean it tomorrow, maybe. Maybe not. The night air bites at my skin as I crack open the shed, the hinges groaning like they know what’s coming.

The pigs squeal the moment the scent hits them. Their snouts thrust between the slats of the pen, eyes gleaming in the dark. They know. They always know.

“Are you ready, big guy?” I whisper, wheeling him forward. “Because they sure as hell are.”

I unlatch the pen and dump him in, tipping the barrow so he slides out in one sluggish, collapsing heap. He lands hard, half in mud, half in straw, the whites of his eyes glaring up at me as his body convulses once, just once, before freezing entirely.

The largest sow wastes no time. She barrels forward, grunting with primal hunger, and sinks her teeth into his exposed throat. The crunch that follows is not subtle. Blood spurts in a high arc, splattering the edge of the fence. His body twitches violently, spasming against the paralysis, and then it goes still.

Utterly still.

I don’t flinch. I don’t turn away. I watch.

The pigs swarm, a blur of snouts and bristles and snapping jaws. They devour him with a kind of reverence, piece by bloody piece, flesh peeled from bone, screams replaced by the rhythmic, wet sounds of consumption.

And me?

I stand at the fence, my breath fogging the cold air, and for the first time in years…

I feel clean.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Two weeks pass. The clinic. The cabin. The routine I’ve kept since Kerr.

The familiar routine is nice, if I have to admit it. Once I step out of the hospital, the wall of humidity hits me. The air is stale and heavy as it rests on my skin. A sundae sounds good right about now, chocolate and peanut butter, something sweet enough to drown out the day.

It doesn’t take long before my fingers grasp the metal handle of the glass door and I pull it open. The sound of oldies floats through the air of the diner. It’s a 24-hour diner. I never understood why a small town like Hurricane could tolerate a 24-hour diner. As soon as I hit the counter and put in my order, my eyes land on Clyde. He’s sipping on a cup of coffee with a steaming plate of biscuits and gravy in front of him. His normally perfect hair is askew this morning and that detail alone has me interested.

“Busy night?” I raise my voice to get his attention.

He looks at me over the rim of his mug before he pulls it down. “Yes. Busy, stressful, messy. It was all of the above.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were describing my shift.”

“The hospital was busy?”

I shrug my shoulders. “No, not really.”

He laughs. “We had a mare have a close call while in labor. I didn’t think she was going to make it.”

“But she did?”

“She did,” he says. The waitress steps up to Clyde and refills his mug. I nod, but he doesn’t notice it. “Do you want to join me?” He gestures to the empty seat next to him.

“I don’t think so. My ice cream sundae can’t compare to that mound of gravy you got sitting there.”

“Understandable. It is a hefty plate.”

The waitress comes from the back and hands me my bag over the register. “It’s already taken care of, sweetie.”

I look at Clyde and he lifts his mug in salute.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He nods and then goes back to his coffee without another acknowledgment.