Meditation takes many forms. Butchery is one of them. A slow, methodical process of cutting. It’s ritualistic. I’d executed the process so many times my mind was lulled by it. I enjoyed the precision, the artistry, and I was good at it. Which was why, whenever I radioed ahead to Rick, my friend with the refrigerated truck, he would agree to make the detour up to mine without hesitation.
That morning’s kill, skinned and quartered, was ageing in the fridge, taking the place of the buck I’d shot the week before. He was laid out on the bench in neat portions, the offcuts in a bucket ready to take down to the roadhouse for Con’s pies.
The lumbering chug of Rick’s truck was unmistakable, even at a distance, the slowing as he made the turn off the main road, the intermittent revving as he went
