Bruce walked in holding a bottle containing fragments of his own calf muscle. The wounds on his body had stopped bleeding, but the anger and exhaustion within him still burned. He lowered his head, his gaze sweeping over the furry ball curled up on the sofa.
Under the dim yellow light of the living room, the thirteen-year-old was still curled up in the corner of the sofa, sleeping soundly. However, just as Bruce set down the plastic bottle, the furball suddenly opened its eyes.
It yawned as it approached, its nose wrinkled: “Woof woof—(Big dog, you're bleeding!)”
Bruce knelt down and gently stroked its head: “Don't make a fuss, I'm fine. Go back to sleep.” He held up the sealed bottle, “This little wound is nothing.”
Inside the bottle was a piece of flesh cut from his calf—a souvenir f
