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January 5, 2006

Michele: All of Us Food That Hasn't Died

Daylight comes and he sees what he stepped on all night.

Bones.

Light trickles into the hole, reflects off the whiteness. He squeezes his eyes shut.

How long?
How many?
Who are they?

The hole is deep, wide. He remembers being pushed down, tumbling over what he thought was smooth rocks.

Human. Bones.

Something flaps overhead. A helicopter. He climbs over bones, scrambling to safety, stops when he sees a glint of light. A dog tag. He reads it. A neighbor he saw alive. Last night.

The flapping gets closer.

That’s not a helicopter.

These bones - they’ve been picked clean.

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