The lights in the slaughter house had been flickering off and on for a few weeks. This was on purpose., they’d been rewired to malfunction.

Byrd prepared for his task. Cows still mooed as they swung by on hooks, paper tags on their ears, dripping blood. He pretended not to notice.

Climbing onto the scissor lift, Byrd put it into gear, its wheels slipping in cow feces and bovine bodily fluids. He steered it under the first eighteen-foot-long florescent fixture.

Now up thirty feet, he unhooked the swinging cover and yelped as fly carcasses spilled out. His ducking and dodging caused the lift to rock back and forth. He fell for it every time.

Byrd removed the two bulbs and replaced them with ones that would malfunction in a couple weeks time. He raised the lift a little higher to change out his hidden camera’s memory card.

In the beginning, it was all about loving a girl. Then he became infected with her resolve; every living thing has a story to tell, some just need help in the telling.