She looks relaxed.
That hits harder than any punch ever has.
I rescue her with a beer and earn a look of mock gratitude that tightens something low in my chest. After that, the night settles into something easy.
Too easy.
I’m halfway through my third hot dog when she appears in front of me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in judgment.
Not just because it’s aggressively processed meat but because it’sland meat.
Saint’s mortal enemy.
She looks at the hot dog. Then at me.
“Hmm, eating your favorite shape again, I see.”
I groan. “I’m being attacked in my own family home.”
Before she can finish the execution, someone sets down a fresh platter beside the grill. More hot dogs. Raw hamburger patties stacked and ready.
RED RIBBON PROVISION CO.
Quality Meats Since 1949
Same brand.
The thought hits me so fast my stomach drops out from under my ribs.
I freeze with the hot dog halfway to my mouth, jaw hanging open as memory slams into me like a physical blow. Saint’s eyes follow my stare to the packaging in the man’s hands. I see the exact second it clicks for her too.
That logo.
That red-and-white striping.
The same damned brand stamped across the crates in the hot dog factory that we turned into a war zone.
The one where bodies fell into the processing line, where meat grinders didn’t care about tailored suits or polished shoes or the fact that one of those men was already three days dead, bloated, leaking, and dragged halfway across the world before being fed into industrial blades.
Skippy.
Christ.
I look down at the hot dog in my hand like it’s suddenly breathing.
Then I look back at the packaging.
Then at Saint.
“I’ve had three,” I say quietly.
She stares at me for half a second before covering her mouth. “I may be sick.”
“You?” I gesture at myself, panic finally clawing up my throat. “I’m the one who ate the corpse-meat.”
I turn the hot dog over, inspecting it like I might find a button, a cufflink, some horrifying piece of recognition staring back at me.
“Ay, Dios mío,” I mutter. “What if I turn into Frank?”
