Contaminated

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THEY KEEP THEM IN CAGES. THE UNCLAIMED. Long rows of narrow, filthy cages lined up along dark corridors lit by bare, hanging bulbs. The corridors stink like disinfectant. It’s a harsh, burning smell that hurts the inside of my nose, but it’s better than the reek that wafts up from underneath the odor of cleanser. That smell’s something raw and meaty and moist, something sick. Like dirty wounds. Blood and other things.

“These are our new girls.” Jean, the kennel worker who brought me in here, pauses in the doorway to another long corridor, this one with the added luxury of dripping water and cracks in the cement floor. Something scuttles into the shadows, something I don’t want to see. Her keys jingle against her hip as she turns to look at me. “You know what you’re looking for, right, hon?”

Of course I know. But just in case, I hold up the picture I pulled from an old album. It’s worn and creased from being in my pocket. Warm from my body. I look a lot different in that picture. I was only ten then, and I’ll soon be eighteen. But that’s okay. We all look different now.

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