Joey’s feet bound by the rope, dragged across the yard, his cheek fiery hot against the road, his eyes closed and opened at the same time because he wants, wanted, to see what was happening while at the same time blinded by the gravel. Dallarosa got tired of dragging him, dropped his feet to the ground.
This is the last thing Joey can remember before the clammy walls of the dead freezer, before the flooding of fluorescent light and the tall man in the Rolling Stones t-shirt and the woman with the bad knee, and being helped up, out, away, with every inch of him feeling sore, and scraped, and hoarse, and limp, like a gutted pumpkin smashed against the ground.
But still alive. Yes, still alive.
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