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Another limb disappears into the chaos of snouts and hooves, and I smile faintly.

“Good pigs,” I murmur, reaching for the last arm in the wheelbarrow.

CHAPTER

SIX

The shed is alive with the buzz of electricity. The fluorescent bulbs overhead cast a stark, clinical light, illuminating the narrow space in sharp, unforgiving detail. My tools lie neatly on the portable metal cart, gleaming like instruments of salvation, or damnation. It depends on how you look at it.

“Good evening, Virgil. Or morning? Hard to tell in here, isn’t it?”

Virgil Wolfe sits slumped in the reinforced chair, his arms bound tightly to the armrests, his legs strapped to the posts. The straps dig into his swollen wrists and ankles, red and raw from days of struggle. I’ve had to make modifications since his arrival. Men like him, even half-starved and dehydrated, have a way of thrashing more than you’d think.

Not that he’s thrashing now. No, the cocktail of sedatives I’ve administered ensures that he’s lucid but subdued, awake enough to feel the humiliation, too drugged to do anything about it. His eyelids flutter, slow and uneven, like he’s caught in the space between sleep and surrender. His head lolls to the side, exposing the bruised column of his neck, a patchwork of fading yellows and purples that speaks to every time he fought me and lost. The restraints have rubbed his skin raw, the angry welts like a collar carved by consequence. He reeks of sweat, fear, and the sour tang of wasted breath. There’s nothing righteous about him. Just flesh. Weak, pathetic, human flesh.

“I went to Wolfe’s market this week.” I set down an apron I pulled from the storage room on my way to use the restroom. I lay it at his feet. “It’s emptying out. Shelves are going bare. It seems that the missus isn’t much of a business owner. Not when she spends every waking moment crying for her God-fearing husband. So Wolfe’s market will be just a memory. Turns out a store without its owner is just a building. Same goes for a man without his hands.”

Thirty days I’ve kept him here. Thirty days of careful management, balancing fluids and calories, just enough to keep him alive but never enough to let him heal. He no longer resembles a healthy man. The weight loss has carved him down to something skeletal, his skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones that jut like blades beneath the surface. Hollow-cheeked now, the flesh so depleted they’ve collapsed inward, giving him the gaunt look of a man fading from the inside out. Ribs press visibly beneath the thinning skin of his torso, each rise and fall pulling tight across bone like a stretched drum. He hasn’t worn pants in weeks. No reason to, not with the catheter tube snaking out from beneath him. Cracked and pale, his lips are dry, peeling at the corners from dehydration and neglect. What was once a well-kept beard now hangs in a greasy tangle, framing his mouth like a mask of rot. Even his hair, greasy, matted to his scalp, smells of decay. His eyes, dulled by sedation and exhaustion, swim in dark hollows bruised by weeks of poor sleep and pain. This is what a man becomes when you take away his dignity one day at a time. The once-confident face of Virgil Wolfe is gone. What’s left is a husk. The man who thought he’d never be held accountable is gone.

The stench comes off him in waves. It’s a rancid mix of sweat, the faint sharp tang of urine from the catheter, and pure shit. It clings to the walls and my clothes, no matter how often I air it out. It’s unavoidable. No system is perfect, not his, not mine.

I haul the hose into the shed, the heavy coil unwinding behind me with reluctant jerks. When I twist the spigot, the water erupts with a sharp hiss, icy droplets spraying my hands before slicing through the crisp air like needles. The sound bounces off the walls, loud and jarring in the close quarters, but it drowns out his faint, pitiful whimpering.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

The first spray hits his chest, and he flinches violently, trying to fight against the restraints. His muscles spasm weakly, a ripple of life in a body otherwise drained of it. The water pools beneath him, swirling with filth, before draining into the grooves of the floor. I aim the stream lower, hosing the shit from between his legs and letting the icy streams snake over his bare feet. He jerks again, his breaths coming faster now, uneven and shallow.

When I think he’s had enough, I shut off the hose and grab a nearby towel, tossing it onto his lap. It lands in a damp heap, soaking up the last of the icy runoff. He doesn’t reach for it, of course. He can’t.

“Not much of a catch, are you?” I mutter, smirking faintly as I step back. The joke feels hollow, but I don’t mind.

I pull on some gloves, the snap of nitrile sharp in the quiet. My gloved fingers skim over the IV stand beside him, checking the flow rate. The saline bag drips steadily, each bead of liquid a lifeline keeping him from succumbing to the neglect I’ve otherwise ensured.

“You’re stubborn, Virgil. Most men would’ve given up by now,” I continue, leaning in closer. “But not you. Maybe it’s that Wolfe pride everyone in town used to talk about.”

He doesn’t answer, he stopped speaking about a week ago. Maybe he ran out of words to say to me. His eyes blink sluggishly. That’s good. I want him awake for this.

I pick up a syringe from the tray, carefully expelling the excess air. The clear liquid glimmers as it catches the light. Ketamine, enough to dull his pain without knocking him out. I lean over, brushing the wet hair from his forehead, and find the injection port on the IV line taped to his forearm. The needle slides in clean. He flinches slightly, the only sign of resistance he can muster.

“Don’t worry. You’ll feel this,” I whisper. “But not too much.”

As the ketamine works its way through his bloodstream, I busy myself with preparation.

“Your wife misses you. She’s dressed in black as if she’s in mourning. How can she be mourning a man she never really knew? Or did she? Did she know who you were beneath your starched suits? Is she just as guilty as you?” I shake my head. “I never thought about that before.” I look over my shoulder at him not that I’d expect him to answer. “I wonder if the men who hurt me confessed their sins to those closest to them. Tell me, Virgil, did you confess your sins to your wife? I wouldn’t mind showing her what it means to repent.”

I watch his reaction carefully. He doesn’t so much as twitch. He didn’t tell her.

The cart is already arranged with precision: a scalpel, forceps, sutures, bone saw, and a cauterizing pen. Everything has been sterilized and placed in the order I’ll need it. My medical training takes over, my hands moving with a practiced precision that feels almost detached from the violence I’m about to unleash. I glance at him again. His breathing is slow and rhythmic, but his gaze flickers between me and the tools. He knows.

“Do you believe in justice?” I ask, dragging a stool closer to his chair. “I do. Not the kind they preach about in church. God’s will, divine mercy. No. I’m talking about real justice. The kind you can feel.” I slide the scalpel into my hand, its weight a familiar comfort. “The kind you can’t escape.”

“Remember what you did to me, Virgil? How I trembled under your touch? Do you remember the sound of my cries as you forced yourself into my body again and again?” I ask, my voice soft, almost conversational. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flicker, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I hope you do because I remember every time I felt your touch.”

The silence stretches. His breathing is slow and shallow, the only sound in the room besides the steady hum of the heater. His lip twitches, and I catch the flicker of fear in his eyes. He remembers.

“Do you remember the first time you touched me?” I tilt my head. “No? Not going to answer? Or you just don’t remember. I’ll refresh your memory. Not long after my mother ‘left.’” I use air quotes. “Did you used to do to her what you did to me? Or were your desires to rape solely focused on children? You know, the ones who couldn’t fight back?” His eyes widen. “Oh, what? Not a subject you want to talk about? Tough shit, Virgil!” The memories crawl up my spine, but I shove them back down where they belong. “You touched me. Right under the watchful eye of my father. Right under the eye of God.”

His body stiffens against the restraints, but he doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. His silence is the same as it was back then, heavy, oppressive. A weapon he wielded to keep me compliant.