by Sean Cahill
On the drive back Frank stared out the window, watching streetlights go by. His hand hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. It might even be broken. He’d have to get it looked at.
The men dropped off their prisoners at a brightly lit holding area that had been erected in the parking lot of a public library. Halogen lamps buzzed, gas generators rumbled. The two prisoners were dragged inside a chain-link enclosure and dropped on the cold asphalt.
And when the gate locked behind them, they didn’t even move. They simply laid there, inert, like two lumps of worthless flesh. Not even people.
That’s what they get, thought Frank. They wanted to lay around all day and not work while the rest of us struggle to feed our kids. Well, here you go—you got your wish.
“Good job tonight,” said the leader, appearing at Frank’s side.
Frank nodded. Together they watched the broken, wretched creatures begin to stir. The woman began her soft crying again, curling into herself, black pebbles stuck to her face.
“You did what you had to do,” said the leader. “For your neighborhood. For your family.”
Frank looked at his hands, knuckles swollen, pain spreading. He thought about his son.
None of the men saw Collections take the prisoners away that morning.
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