The sound of mice scurrying into the walls
trying to escape the light and Jim was a
familiar thing. The room was no bigger than a
one bedroom studio with a single workbench
along the far wall. He brushed some old rusty
medical tools to the side of the workbench
then leaned over a metal tray packed with ice
containing a severed left hand.
“Oh good the mice didn’t get to it.” He said to
himself.
A thunder strike shook the garage.
“Tonight is your night.” He said.
He reached into the metal tray to retrieve the
appendage from its bed of ice. He held the
hand up close to inspect his handy work. The
hand was cold and blue from lack of blood
flow and its icy resting place. The fingers
were locked into a grabbing position, remind-
ing Jim on how he got the hand. He leaned in
to admire his handy work and inspect his suc-
cesful mouth transplant.
With a quick sweeping motion, he brushed
the ice tray off the bench onto the floor. The
sound of metal and ice hitting the concrete