The vomit between my feet was the same texture as the biscuits and gravy I’d eaten for breakfast. A terrorist attack on the California Zephyr, they said, but I was unprepared for the scene that unfolded before me. The explosion had to have been huge, there were bodies and parts hundreds of feet away.

The first recognizable body part was Lone Writer’s hand, it had been severed at the wrist, yet still gripped a colorful pencil with Lone Writers name engraved on it. She also had a nice design painted on her nails.

Elisabeth L. Davis, an eager trainee in the Reconstructive Anthropology Department, rushed to my side. “Can I help, can I help?” she said pulling on her rubber gloves.

I was more than happy to have an eager trainee gather fingerprints. I walked across the street, through broken glass, to a Starbucks to rinse the bile from my mouth.
Opening my laptop I punched in the first fingerprint, then sat back and stared. The name was a 100% match for Elisabeth L. Davis.