Carl stood on the front porch at the Larkin place. He could smell it way out there. Cat shit and rotting wood. And all the other God-awful shit that was probably inside. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and gave serious thought to leaving. The dispatch girl at Kwik Klean had told him to expect a mess. The old woman—Eva Larkin—had died in her sleep and the daughter was there now cleaning out whatever she could, but needed some extra help. All the dispatch girl had said was that he’d need lots of trash bags, the 55-gallon industrial suckers he had in the 4x4 now.
Gemini Magazine, September 2011