“Just get rid of it,” she hissed.
Fine. Dead body disposal. No sweat. I’ve done worse.
“You’ve got ten minutes.” Now she’s pushing it. But what other choice was there?
The ground was solid. Typical Michigan winter. Much too hard for my bargain-basement trowel.
Seven minutes.
The garden caught my attention: unwelcoming, isolated, soft mulch. A superb choice.
Three minutes.
Digging was easy. Soon the hole was done, the body buried. Times up. On cue, the back door burst open and out came the eight-year-old. Sobbing.
“Daddy! Mr. Crackers is missing! Mommy said you’d help me find him!”
Thanks, Mommy.
The Weekday One Hundred 