Yardwork

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Tim made a special trip to buy the shovel he used to bury the nameless man. It was easy: an older lady in a blue vest directed him to the proper aisle without a second thought. A fifteen-year-old buying a spade doesn’t raise concern in anyone; it’s not like purchasing a gun or a hunting knife, though a shovel could be as deadly. But the shovel didn’t kill the man, Tim merely used it to dig holes to put bits and pieces of him in, a task for which it was made.

In the end, his father’s garden shears finally killed the nameless man.

The man probably had a name, everyone did, but Tim didn’t care to know it, didn’t ask or wonder about it. The moment he found the man sleeping in the shed, recovering from the abuse of whatever substance he’d imbibed to put him in that state, Tim decided the less he knew about the man, the better. If the need to call him anything arose, maybe it would be ‘opportunity’.

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