itty bitty pieces

Bailey McGrath was going 35 in a 30 zone when she hit the boy with her hand-me-down Corolla. It was a humid July night and no one was around when his body bounced off her hood and rolled into a ditch.

Bailey screamed and slammed the breaks. Then she got out of the car and went to look at him.

But before we get to all that, there are some other things you should know first. Like the argument. You should know about the argument.

The sun was going down when the peace had shattered at the house her and her husband were renting over in Midtown. The fight was about money, like usual. They were in the garage.

“Baby, we can’t afford to drop that much cash on airfare,” he said, dirty hands wrangling the hood guts of a 2009 lime green Ford Mustang. He had bought the car for a song off Craigslist and spent much of the summer replacing rusted innards.

“But we can afford for you to spend six hundred dollars on a trifold?”

“Intake manifold,” he said, cleaning his hands with a rag. “Six hundred is a steal. And this is a car,” he said, “we can both use it. It has a practical purpose.”

“I have my own car. A round-trip ticket to San Diego is four hundred dollars. The university is covering the rest – hotel, Uber, food.”

Patrick shrugged. “It’s not doable. We gotta save if we want to move into a house in the next few years. You’ve seen the news about the housing market right? Total shit.”

Bailey stood her ground.“This is the biggest annual conference on social justice in the US. It’s my last year as a grad student and I’ll be able to share my research.  My professors all fought for me to get my stipend; they all say I should go. I might meet someone there that could help me get a job.”

“A job where?” he asked, fixing his eyes on her at last.

“A job.”

“We ain’t moving.”

“No one said anything about moving.”

“Answer’s no, Bailey.”

“I’m just going to put it on my credit card.”

“I won’t help you pay it,” he said.

“Then don’t.”

“How are you going to cover it? That stipend doesn’t even cover utilities.”

She was already gone, out the garage, crossing the yard to the Corolla. He came out of the garage to talk some more but her tires were already burning down Atlantic Drive. 

“Asshole,” she hissed, coming to a red light. She just didn’t understand it. When they were younger, Pat was sweet and supportive. He had even traveled to Orlando once to hear her read a paper at a conference.

Joining Georgia State’s grad program had changed things. Perhaps he had assumed she’d be a nice, quiet housewife, that she wasn’t actually serious about all this working towards a better world nonsense.

Well, he read the room wrong. She had potential. And this paper, an in-depth exploration of Atlanta’s black housing crisis and what steps the local and state government should take to fight forced homelessness and gentrification, could make a difference and land her a gig somewhere – maybe at a non-profit or even an associate professorship eventually.

The light turned green. She shot down the road. When she was pissed, she’d drive north up to Duck Pond and stand in the woods, smoke one of those cigarettes hidden at the bottom of her glove compartment. Both Pat and her mom thought she had quit years ago and it was mostly true, but sometimes, it just felt fucking good to stand out in the teeming expanse of nature and smoke something.

She was thinking about these things, seeing them in her mind’s eye. The pond. The woods. She was tasting the nicotine.

And then she hit the boy with her car.

She was looking at him now, in the ditch. He was a black boy, maybe 14 or 15. He was wearing jeans and a turquoise hoodie featuring some kind of character from a video game she vaguely recognized. He wasn’t moving. With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone and shined a light down on him. There was blood on his sleeve. His face was turned into the ground and he was so very still.

She thought she might scream again but nothing came out of her mouth. She stood there for maybe another minute and then went to her car. She put it in reverse and backed down the road to the side of the ditch. She got out and looked in both directions. She was alone. No one was coming.

She went down into the ditch and grabbed the body. She was surprised by how light he was. Gently, she stowed him in the backseat and closed the door. There was blood on her sleeves now too.

She kicked her tire and got in the car. Laying her head against the steering wheel, she moaned, “What am I gonna do?” She pulled out her phone to look up hospitals. The nearest one was seven miles away.

She turned the key in the ignition and went slowly. By the time she reached the stop sign at the end of the street, she was imagining herself pulling up to the ER with the boy. What would she even say? She thought about calling the police but then they’d ask her why she moved the body from the ditch to her car.

She looked back at the boy. He was dead. Nothing could be done for him. There was no need to rush to the hospital. She had to get her story right. She needed time to prepare for the shitshow that could end her life. She’d need to call a lawyer. 

She took a left at the stop sign and headed home.

The light was still on in the garage when she pulled into the yard. Shaking, she got out and found her husband sitting on the concrete floor, trying to open a cardboard box with bare hands.

“Pat…” she said.

“Have a good hissyfit? Get it out of your system?” he asked. “Have you seen the box cutter? I can’t find it anywh–” He stopped talking when he finally looked up at her. 

He got to his feet and walked over to her, grabbing her arms. “You’re covered in blood, holy shit. Are you alright?”

“Ki….kid.”

He squinted. “What?”

“Hit…kid…car. In car. On lawn.”

He looked over her shoulder and into the yard where the Corolla was.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.”

But Pat was already crossing the yard. He peered into the back of the Corolla and took a deep breath. “That’s a dead kid,” he said to no one in particular. “That’s a fucking dead kid in my wife’s car on my lawn.”

“Oh Jesus,” Bailey said, giving him a start. She had crept up behind him and started crying again.

He spun around. “Stop it.”

“Pat, I don’t know what to do.”

“Shut the fuck up, let me think. That’s what you can do. Get inside the house. Last thing we need is our neighbors to see you covered in blood.”

She nodded helplessly and went inside.

He stared at the kid a bit longer and then made a plan. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was a plan. He got into the Mustang and drove it out onto the lawn. Then he moved the Corolla inside the garage and closed the door. After that was done, he went inside to find Bailey sitting at the dinner table, staring blankly at the wall. She had apparently cried all the moisture out of her body and moved on to the dry shellshock part of PTSD.

“My life is over,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was just saying whatever came to mind or if it was a plea for pity. In any case, he ignored her and pulled out his cellphone.

She looked at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling Chet.”

She watched him pace back and forth impatiently until someone answered.

“Hey man, it’s Pat. Yeah. Listen: I’m calling in that favor. I need you to come over. No, I’ll tell you when you get here. Just do it. Yes, we’re square if you come over. Thanks.”

He put his phone away and turned to look at Bailey.

 “Why did you call Chet?” she asked.

“You know why I called Chet. I’m pulling your ass out of the fire like I always do.”

“What?”

“I don’t need this shit,” Pat snapped. He took a seat in the other dining room chair. “How do you always fuck up, Bailey? You ran over a damn child.”

“I know,” she answered hopelessly. “We should take him to the hospital. You’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten you mixed up in this.”

“He’s dead as stone. Only thing that’s gonna happen if we take him to the ER is you’re gonna go to jail and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life known as the stupid asshole that married a child-murderer.”

A brief flash of molten hot hatred burned in her chest and up through her throat and into her eyes. “Fuck you, Pat.”

“No, Bailey. Fuck you.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “I have to clean up your mess now. Jail isn’t an option. This is Atlanta. You hit a fucking black kid. You know what they do to child killers in prison, especially black kid killers? Itty bitty pieces, Bailey. There won’t be enough of you left for them to soak up in a sponge.”

The anger left Bailey as she took to wailing. With astonishing speed, Patrick put his hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed. “You want the neighbors to hear?” He lifted his hand away from her mouth. “Chet’s gonna come over. He’s gonna know what to do. We’re gonna do it and then we’re gonna clean this up and then we’re going to live our lives both knowing, with certainty, that none of this ever happened.”

“But what about his family? They’ll want to know what…” she trailed off.

He sat back down and shot her a reproachful look. “It’s you or the roadkill in there, you get that? Just go shower and put on new clothes before Chet gets here. Put those clothes in a garbage bag. Last thing I need is you trailing evidence everywhere.”

She tried to think of things to say. Angry things. Then sad things. Then witty things. But there was only a dead child in the garage. And it was all her fault. She went upstairs to shower.

Pat poured himself a glass of Maker’s Mark. He had just finished when he heard Chet pull up in his truck. He filled a second glass, refilled his own, and then went outside to find Chet standing on the lawn.  He was a big man, 6’2, with broad shoulders and biceps that spoke to the workout regime he maintained in his post-military career, though his six-pack had softened into a beer belly that poked out beneath his flannel shirt.

“Old Crow?” Chet said, eyeing the glass that Pat handed him.

“Maker’s.”

“Oh shit, that bad huh?” 

“You’re gonna wanna down it before we go in.”

“With pleasure.” They both drank their glasses in one gulp. Chet handed it back to Pat, who laid both glasses on the stone steps leading to the front door and then led Chet to the garage.

“Well, let’s take a look at this clusterfuck,” Chet said as the motor-run sheet rose. They stepped inside. Pat pressed the button and the door slid shut behind them.

They walked over and Chet peered into the car window. He looked back at Pat. “That’s a dead kid,” he said flatly. 

“Courtesy of my lovely wife.”

“Bailey did this? Fuckkkk, didn’t realize she had it in her.”

“That woman discovers new blunders everyday.”

“This is what you consider calling in a favor?”

“Motherfucker do not act high and mighty right now. I know you left some dead kids in the Middle East.”

Chet shot him a look. “That’s war. This is a crime. I’ve never hidden a body.”

Pat lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look here, I took the stand for you. I committed perjury. If I hadn’t, that girl would have nailed you to the wall, and if you managed to survive jail, you’d still be a registered sex offender. You owe me.”

Chet put his hand up. “Relax. I know a service. Let’s get the hell out of here though. The dead boy’s depressing me.”

They went into the house.

“What do you mean you know a service?”

They stepped into the living room and Chet took a seat on the couch.

“I worked security at this tech firm downtown a couple of years back. Things got messy one night when one of the execs had a girl over for a party. She OD'd in the bathroom on some designer drug. I kept their card after they were done cleaning her up.”

Pat took a seat across from him. “Well call ‘em, Chet.”

“It’ll cost you,” he warned. “They’re discrete but pricey.”

“Thank god for American Express then, huh? Bailey can figure out how to pay it back.”

“We’re square after this.”

“As soon as that mess in the garage is out of my life, we’re good.”

Chet dug into his pocket to grab his wallet. He pulled what appeared to be a business card and then dialed a number. Patrick watched. He could hear the pipes above him gurgling as Bailey’s shower ran.

What he couldn’t hear, however, was the boy in the garage. His name was Ashton. He was starting to wake up.

*****

A man named Jay drove down I-75, the shine of his F-150’s headlights cutting through the darkness, his left pinky tapping on the steering wheel to the oldies station. He was one of many Jays.

No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip, he sang along softly, as soft as one could with a gravel voice. For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip. His mind was with his work, though, back at Jaybird Janitorial. He was thinking about the shitty, self-assured smile a coworker had given him on the way out of the office.

“Caught another night call, huh?” the rookie, another Jay, had said.

“Some of us like to work,” he had told the newblood. And then out into the night he had gone, to earn his pay. He hated the up-and-comers. They all thought they were smarter than him. He had diligently worked his job for years, watching as his colleagues all retired – one way or another – and were replaced with men and women younger than himself. Their arrogance infuriated him.

And yet, survival meant playing nice. More gray was conquering the hairs of his head. Every other month it seemed his body discovered some new ache. He had two years to go before his pension would be released to him. Two years to continue proving his worth so they didn’t lay him off, which meant taking shit jobs in the dead of the night.

Little Richard howled on the radio. He punched in his custom-installed cigarette lighter and rolled down the window. 10 minutes and one cigarette bud later, he had pulled onto the lawn of the client’s house. It was a two-storey in desperate need of a new paint job and roof repair. He clocked the place as a rental. Jay usually found himself working inside offices and penthouse suites. He shrugged. A job was a job.

He took one last look at his truck and the drybox trailer attached to it before walking toward the house. He stepped to the door and knocked. A second later a heavy set man appeared, his belly peeking out beneath his shirt.

“You the guy?”

Jay fought to suppress a frown. “Sir, do you have the card?”

The man dug into his pocket and gave it to Jay, who examined it closely. It was indeed a business card for Jaybird Janitorial. He wondered how someone like this had gotten access to something so valuable. The business was very selective of its clientele. He would have to have a word with his manager later.

He pocketed the card and smiled at the man. “Are you Mister McGrath?”

The big man moved out of the way to reveal a living room containing an anxious-looking couple standing around. “Oh no, I’m Chet. That’s Pat over there.”

His eyes moved over to Patrick. “I see. Good evening, Mister McGrath.”

“Please come in,” Patrick said. So Jay did. Chet closed the door behind him.

He scanned the living room. Quiet, cozy, but you could smell the cheapness in the air. Is this what I’m reduced to? he wondered without venom. Looking down, he saw red splotches on the wooden floor and made a note to get the cleaning solution from his truck later.

Patrick stepped forward and extended his hand. “We really appreciate you coming down Mister…” 

Jay shook his hand. It was firm. He looked at Patrick and was surprised. The man was nervous, sure, but he seemed pretty grounded despite the fact there was a dead body somewhere in the house.

“Just Jay will do,” he said, smiling politely. “I hear there’s an unfortunate mess.”

“It’s just in the garage.”

“Please lead on.”

The four of them went to the garage. Bailey was in the back, letting the men lead. They all went inside, flipped on the light, and stepped over to the car. She watched as Jay opened the door and looked at the body.

“Woo-eee, she got him good.”

You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not here, she thought. She did not like this man. There was something deeply unsettling about his smile, the way he spoke. She wanted him gone as soon as possible.

The man named Jay looked over the car, walking around it. “Barely a ding on the car itself though. That’s good. Would have to charge you extra to replace the hood. Not too much blood. Definitely have more than enough cleaning supplies to handle the upholstery.”

“So it’s doable?”

Jay came around the car. He spoke reassuringly. “Oh yeah, this is just your standard removal. Nothing fancy. Won’t even break the bank. It’ll hurt, for sure, but you’ll have the credit card paid off in a few months I imagine.” He smiled at the couple.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Bailey said.

“A fair response. If people could cope with this thing easily, well I just wouldn’t have a job.” He chuckled.

“He moved,” Chet said suddenly.

The three of them looked at Chet. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Say again?”

Chet pointed at the backseat. The others peered inside. Sure enough, the boy was moving. He blinked at them. He was holding his arm.

“Please,” he whimpered. “I can’t feel my arm. It might be bro–”

Jay shut the door and looked over at the others. “Well, that is interesting. But, no biggie. Easy to remedy.”

Bailey watched as the man leaned down, rolled up his pants leg, and came back up with a big knife in his hand, like the kind Rambo had.

“Whoa,” Pat said, raising his hand.

Jay blinked. “What? I’ll do it as a courtesy. No extra charge.”

“Pat, we gotta talk this through,” Chet said.

“I know,” Pat said.

A thump from the car window. The boy was tapping his working hand against the window. Bailey helplessly watched the hand as it smeared blood on her window. “We can’t do this,” she said.

Pat looked from the car window to the door leading into the house. “Why don’t we all just step back inside and talk about this a bit more.”

Jay shrugged. “You’re the client.”

Patrick led the others back to the living room, with Bailey locking the door behind them.

The boy named Ashton waited a minute and then, with great pain, reached up to pull up the lock on his door. He grasped the handle, pulled it, and then pushed against the door with his weight, bracing for what was coming.

He fell to the stone floor of the garage, thankfully, on his good arm. It still hurt like a motherfucker but he managed not to scream. He crawled to the wall and sat there for a minute, looking around. He reached down to his pocket, horrified to find his phone was not there. 

He breathed slowly. The pain was excruciating but he got to his feet. He limped around, looking for a switch to the garage door. He knew it’d be noisy and that the chances of escape were not in his favor if it became a foot chase, but maybe he could get outside and yell for help. Speculation turned out to be a moot point. He could not find a switch. Must be a clicker they keep on them.

Overwhelming pain shot through his arm once more. He leaned back against the wall and slid down. He needed to rest. There was no point in wearing himself out if he didn’t have a plan. He felt himself slipping away…perhaps into sleep or something far more permanent.

Keep your head above the water, he thought as darkness descended. He needn’t have worried. Seconds later, a blood-curdling scream shook him wide awake. The sound had come from inside the house.

*****

“I didn’t sign on to kill no kids,” Chet was saying. “Him not being dead, that changes things.”

The four of them were standing close together near the kitchenette – not huddled-like but close. Jay’s eyes scanned the three of them but he remained silent as the others talked. 

Pat was quiet for a moment, appeared to mull things over, and then turned to Bailey. “Sorry baby,” he said at long last. She turned her eyes to the floor, like she could see through it down to the muck below the house, saw her life, her very own face sinking deep into the ground like some foolish adventurer swallowed by quicksand. Yes, this is what she deserved – of course it was.

“I’ll call the police,” she announced.

“No one is going to do any such thing,” Jay said, his voice striking like thunder. There was no anger there but instead, cold authority.

Pat narrowed his eyes. “Now mister, I apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll gladly pay the fee and say we never saw you.”

Jay looked at Patrick and smiled gently. “I’m sorry but that just won’t do, Mister McGrath. I came out here for a job. I will not be going home until the job is done. Job completion rates are important at Jaybird Janitorial. We hold ourselves to the highest standards, and me leaving without performing the agreed upon task – payment or no – that’s just not acceptable.”

Pat coughed into his hand to dispel anxiety, said “I’m going to have to insist, Mister Jay.”

Jay’s smile only grew. “I can see you have some doubts about our services. Maybe you’re worried about my efficiency, about whether or not we can guarantee a thorough cleaning. No worries. Why don’t we have a demonstration to put you at ease?”

A red spurt had already crossed the air, splashing the floor, before three of the four realized what had happened – Patrick being the first to see the glint of steel completing its arc across Chet’s throat.

Bailey’s scream deafened the sound of Chet’s choke as he fell, hands vainly rising to meet his throat as his face hit the floor and the body sagged and twitched in a desperate dance between the borders of life and death.

“That’s enough of that now,” Jay said, pointing the crimson-stained knife at Bailey. Another scream did not leave her. Patrick was standing close to her, shoulder to shoulder, his eyes locked on his friend.

“Chet?” he said. The body twitched in response. Red drew across the wooden floor, pooling around to the side of his head.

Jay lowered himself to the floor and gently planted the tip of the knife against Chet’s left temple with his right hand. He put the palm of his left hand behind the handle and, with a strong motion, popped the knife into Chet’s skull. The man twitched mightily again.

“Oh god,” Bailey said, turning her face into Patrick’s arm to look away while her husband watched with terror and morbid fascination. Jay slammed his palm into the handle once more and the body lay still at last.

Satisfied with his work, the man shook the knife loose and took a handkerchief out, wiping the gore away before stowing both it and the knife somewhere within the dark and vast continent that was his inner coat. He rose to his feet and smiled at the couple again. “Quite the mess. Much bigger than the one currently in your garage. But no worries, we’ll have it handled. Mister McGrath, I’m going to need your assistance for this one.”

“You killed him,” Patrick said, unable to keep his voice from shaking.

“I did. And I’m gonna show you how I’m going to get away with it. And then we’ll do the same for the mess in the garage. But I’ll need your assistance and in return, I’ll even give you a nice discount on the order.”

He turned to Bailey. “Now, Mrs. McGrath, I hate to be coarse and somewhat rude but I’m going to need you to resist any inkling of an urge to call the police or escape with that boy, because if you do, what’s going to happen is that I will unfortunately have to kill your husband.”

The man paused for effect, letting his words sink into the marsh of her brain. “And then, while you might get away from me, I’ll make sure my office knows everything they need to know to find you. And when they do – well, let’s just say the boys over there have ideas and tactics that would make de Sade himself blush. Now, I need you to nod, Mrs. McGrath and promise me you aren’t gonna do anything funny.”

Bailey found her contempt for the man was overridden by her desire for both her and her husband to survive the night. “I promise I won’t try to get away.”

“Good girl. Why don’t you just go take a Tylenol and lay down upstairs? Let the men handle it.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.” With one last look at Patrick, who nodded, she quietly ascended the stairs. 

“He’s a big fellow,” Jay said, already turning to the work at hand. “There’s a carpet in my truck. Let’s go.” They went out and fetched a massive, rolled up carpet from the trailer and then unrolled it next to the body. Working together, they lifted the dead man onto the carpet and folded him into its embrace.

“Watch for bits of brains now,” Jay told him as they rolled. “There’s no getting that out of your shirt.”

With great effort, they lifted their cargo and brought him out to the mouth of the drybox trailer.

Bailey watched this unfold from the second floor window, half-hoping her neighbors were watching and would call the police. Fantasy, of course. The elderly Thompsons were in bed by 8:30 on the dot. They had slept through all of Tropical Storm Lee.  

Nobody knew what was happening at this house except for three of them – and the boy in the garage.

She watched helplessly as Jay and her husband got into the truck and pulled onto the street, driving off into the moonlit night with grim cargo.

Bailey waited a few minutes to make sure they wouldn’t turn around, then she went down to the kitchen, side-stepping the pool of blood in the living room. She fetched the Sunbeam from the pantry and meats from the refrigerator and made a ham & cheese sandwich, dousing the innards in mustard and slicing it diagonally. She got two Tylenol, poured a cup of water, and brought it all to the garage door on a tray.

Taking a breath, she unlocked the door and stepped through. The boy was sitting against the wall, holding his arm.

He started breathing hard when he saw her. He talked between large gasps of fear and pain.

“Please don’t hurt me…anymore.”

She approached slowly, laying the tray down next to him, and then took a seat a few feet away. Despite what it meant for her, she was glad he was not dead and that she had not killed a person.

His eyes fluttered to the tray and then back to her. “It’s got poison in it, doesn’t it?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just ham and cheese. I promise. I don’t even know what I would put on it to poison you.”

He looked at her and then back to the sandwich and then back to her. Hunger won out.

He took the sandwich with his functioning arm and bit into it, tearing into it ravenously. He had not had anything to eat since the cardboard-flavored pizza the cafeteria had served for lunch.

“Why are you going to kill me?” he said at long last, bits of food in his mouth.

“We’re not,” Bailey said, voice shaky, her mother’s irritating voice ringing in her mind, Don't make promises you can’t keep, Bailey Boo.

“I heard y’all talking,” his voice surprisingly steel in its calmness for someone in his situation.  “Please ma’am, just let me go. I’ll just say a car hit me and I didn’t see the license plate. I swear. I’ll go home and no one will ever know.”

“Okay,” Bailey said. “We’ll do that as soon as my husband comes home. We’ll let you go.”

“No, you gotta do it now. If he comes home, they’re gonna kill me. I know they will.”

“I promise you, they won’t.”

“You’re in on it,” the panic returning to his voice. “You’re all going to kill me.”

Bailey stood up, found herself fighting tears. “I’ll be back,” she said. “Take your Tylenol.”

“This is wrong.”  

He struggled to get up but she had already gone out the door and locked it behind her by the time he was on his feet.

“Shit,” he said. Filled with nervous energy, Ashton scoured the garage once more in the vain hopes of finding a garage clicker. He searched the toolbox, the shelves lined with emergency canned foods, a small closet filled with auto repair parts. Nada.

He was just about to sit back down when he saw something peeking atop of a cardboard box in the corner of the garage. He hobbled over and reached down. His hand closed over the cold surface of a box cutter. He thumbed the button and watched the tiny slab of steel emerge from the mouth. It wasn’t much – especially if any of those people had guns – but it was more than he had to defend himself a minute ago.

He retracted the blade and stowed it into his pants pocket. He took a seat and swallowed the pills, washing it down with water. 

And then did the only thing he could do: he waited.

*****

Pat focused on the white blips of the road, watching as they sped toward the headlights, only to be devoured by the truck. They had been driving for ten minutes or so in complete silence, and every now and then Pat would cast a look at Jay, in the driver’s seat, humming a little tune to himself and calm as could be.

At last, the driver spoke. “How about some Seger?”

“What?”

“Your first time with this sort of thing is always rough. The music might help distract you.”

“Where are we going?” Pat asked, no longer able to suppress his curiosity.

Jay turned up the volume on the stereo so that “Night Moves” was audible but not overwhelming. He looked over at Pat and smiled, as though they were partners in some kind of heist. “A discreet place for deeds that must be handled discreetly.”

“I was hoping for something a little more concrete.”

Jay turned his eyes back to the road.

“Adamsville.”

“That place is crime city.”

“Atlanta treats that neighborhood like it’s radioactive and has thus abandoned it to its own devices. Perfect place for one of our facilities.”

They drove for a little bit longer in silence and then Jay spoke again. “Your wife’s a problem.”

Pat’s heart skipped a beat. “She’ll go along with what I say. Always does.”

Jay chuckled. “I thought the same thing with my woman. We aren’t together anymore.”

“Divorced?”

Jay smiled at him in a way that made him regret asking. “We’re just not together anymore. Point is, your lady is seriously unappreciative. Here you are, trying to do her a solid, and all she can do is be hysterical. She needs to understand that it's her or the boy.” Jay scratched his ear. “Most women are ungrateful, y’know? You give them the world, you fix their problems, and they want more, more, more.”

Pat turned his eyes to the road, counting the blips again. He did not want to be here.

“I think the problem is, we started trying to entertain their perspective. We tried to be understanding, let them have their seat at the table. And it wasn’t enough. Lady Macbeths, all of them. You read that play?”

“Yeah, in high school.”

“Good shit. Tells you everything about people you need to know.” Foreigner came on the radio. Jay turned up the volume dial just a bit more. The headlights continued to carve into the darkness, which never seemed to end.

“Love this song. Where was I?”

“Women at the table.”

“Right. I think we’ve spent far too long entertaining them, y’know? The light of man has diminished. The last few generations of men….straight up pussies, no offense.”

“None taken,” Pat said, trying his hardest to focus on the road.

Jay continued. “I can vividly remember when men had confidence in their beliefs, in their inalienable right to compete and create and obtain achievements that the world had never seen before. Men founded great civilizations, invented miraculous technology that fostered a global brotherhood of progress. And now everyone has doubts.”

He punched in his cigarette lighter. “Everyone gets hung up about right and wrong. Men have been taught to be cowards, so they can be more easily controlled. Nearly every goddamn man I see, they’ve surrendered their piece of destiny for the cold comfort of a salary and the false, obligated affections of family.”

Jay went quiet long enough to light up a cigarette. He extended an open carton of American Spirits to Pat. “Want one?”

“I haven’t smoked in a dog’s age,” Patrick said.

Jay smiled at him again. It was a cruel smile. “Mister McGrath…Pat, I’m not gonna tell your wife.” Pat could hear the insistence. He took the cigarette and lit up. He sucked on the paper and inhaled the smoke. It felt nice, all things considered.

Jay punched the lighter back in. “Don’t that just hit the spot?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“What sort of work you in, Pat?”

“Accounting.”

“Really? I took you as more of an outdoors type. Maybe a mechanic. That Mustang on the lawn sure looked like a work-in-progress.”

“I loved cars growing up but you can’t really make a living on that sort of work, not with a family to take care of at least.”

Jay nodded. “Yet another way the neutering of the world has continued. Damn shame. You remind me of my father a little bit. He was a man for real. He just did what needed to be done, y’know? Didn’t wring his hands about it. He put food on the table. He fixed everything – cars, lawnmowers, ovens, you fucking name it. And he fixed us too when we stepped out of line. He wasn’t afraid to put his mind into action and change his circumstances.”

Jay finished the cigarette and flicked it out the window. Pat was still sucking on his, paying attention to every word.

“It’s not your fault, you being a pussy. Probably not your dad’s fault either. We’ve all just…let it go, y’know? But it don’t gotta be that way. All you have to do is take action. Really grab the mud of life with your hands and start building shit with it. You know what I mean?”

Pat finished the cigarette and flicked it out the window. He was quiet for a bit and then said, “Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

They didn’t say anything the rest of the way.

*****

Bailey sat in her bedroom closet. There was a small box in front of her. The box was about 9 inches across. It was black and made of resistant polymer; the lid was open, revealing a .38 Smith & Weston. The gun was also black except for its pearl-colored handle. There was a small see-thru plastic container of bullets next to it.

It was the most expensive gift that Pat had ever gotten her and she hated it. Like all his gifts, it had been more about his interest rather than hers, like the cordless electric knife and apron set he had gotten her for Christmas last year, probably expecting her to cook him dinner regularly after her grad work was done.

She had let him take her to the shooting range once. She had stood there for an hour, feet firmly planted, with both hands wrapped around the pistol. Each trigger tap sent shock waves through her upper body. Her arms were sore for days afterward.

She took the gun from the case and struggled to open the cylinder. When it was open, she loaded six rounds, one after the other, and snapped it shut. 

Bailey tucked the gun into her back pants pocket and grabbed a first aid kit from the kitchen before heading into the garage. Ashton was still on the floor, holding his arm. He looked up at her. She returned the stare and showed him the first aid kit.

“Let’s talk,” she said.

*****

They pulled into the junkyard on Howell Drive, across from the McDonald’s. It was a small place but densely packed, with car stacks surrounding a couple of sheds and a small gray warehouse. As far as Pat could tell, they were only the souls around.

Jay backed the trailer up to a door on the west side of the warehouse and they carried the carpet containing Chet inside. Within were shelves filled with wooden crates as well as a handful of closets where power tools like saws and drills hung on straight iron hooks. In the middle of all of this was some spacious estate with a single, steel table big enough for several decent-sized logs. It wasn’t until his foot kicked up the material that he realized this part of the floor was covered in see-thru plastic sheet. Pat’s stomach flipped.

‘Okay, let’s roll him out here.”

They did slowly and then they lifted him on the table. Pat looked down at Chet. The man’s eyes were staring straight up into the lights hanging from the ceiling and his skin had already started to lose color.

“Was he a friend of yours?” Jay said, heading over to the closet.

“Not really,” Pat said. “More of a guy that owed me a favor.”

“Good. Will make this easier then.” Pat watched as Jay grabbed two orange 6-inch chainsaws, one in each hand, and made his way back to the table. “How’d he get under your thumb?” 

Jay passed him the chainsaw. Pat was surprised by how light it was. “I said I had eyes on him somewhere when a young girl was being taken advantage of elsewhere. He got off.”

Jay smiled at him and Pat’s stomach did another flip. “For kicks or leverage?”

“My dad always said it was good to collect favors.”

Jay nodded. “A man’s oath is a special kind of currency.” He looked down and patted Chet on the forehead. “Didn’t turn out so hot for him. Shame.” He turned his attention to the chainsaw in Pat’s hand. “You know how to use one of those?”

“Can’t ever say I’ve used it on a person, no.”

“Well, same principle as logging, alright? But here: put these on.” He passed him some rumpled cotton that took a second for Patrick to register as a coverall with a hood. There were some goggles on top as well.

They both dressed and strapped on their goggles. Jay picked up his chainsaw. “Now, watch me. And try not to lose your lunch.”

Pat paid close attention as the man revved his chainsaw and slowly put the blade down on Chet’s left arm. Blood sprayed – but not nearly as much as Patrick thought there’d be – and a second later the hand plopped to the ground with a small thud.

“Now, you take the right side,” Jay shouted. “I’ll finish up this side and the head. Don’t bother trying to be precise, just whatever gets those limbs separated from the body, okay?”

Pat pulled the string on his saw. It roared to life and there was a rumbling beneath the case. He slowly lowered the blade onto the arm and met little resistance. When he was done, he moved on to the leg.

“Go to the cabinet and get some trash bags,” Jay shouted. Pat nodded and grabbed a fistful of black garbage bags from the cabinet like a good assistant.

“I’ll handle the torso. You gather up all the bits and bobs, put them in the bags.” Jay yelled before turning the saw onto what was left of Chet.

All in all, they were done in 40 minutes. That’s how long it took to cut a man to pieces and disperse him across five bags. Pat stared at the bags near the edge of the plastic-covered floor. He couldn’t help but think of school lunches packed in brown bags. Suddenly the difference between life and death was clear and surprisingly undramatic.

“Pat,” Jay said. Pat turned. Jay was taking off his suit. “We’re done here. Let’s get undressed.”

Pat looked around. “There’s still blood everywhere. And what about the parts? Aren’t we gonna like, put ‘em in acid or something?”

The older man chuckled. “Acid? Bah. Agency’s got people for cleanup. They come and do the rounds every two hours or so, tidy up the mess and take the bags away to an underground furnace. This floor will be so clean that you can lick your dinner off it. If the bodies aren’t cut up, their five percent cut of my fee goes up to nine. Besides, we don’t have time to dally.” 

Jay checked the gold watch tightly strapped to his wrist. “It’s nearly 11. And there’s still a mess to clean up at the house.”

*****

“This is going to sting,” Bailey said. “But I have to do it.”

Ashton nodded reluctantly and turned away as the woman put the cloth dripping with Hydrogen peroxide against the long gash running down his arm. He screamed and focused on closing his free hand’s fist in his hoodie pocket to distract himself. It didn’t really help.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

He nodded, biting his lip.

“I'll get you to a hospital soon and we’ll get you checked out. They’ll fix your arm.”

“Why can’t we go now?” he asked weakly.

“There’s a bad man….we hired him when we thought you were dead. He killed our friend and he’ll kill my husband if they come home and we’re not here.”

He looked up at her. “You were going to hide my body.” Not an accusation, just a fact.

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I know it’s fucked up. I’m sorry. I just didn’t….” she trailed off, the shame overwhelmed her. She took great, heaving breaths to try and calm down.

“You were just scared,” he said. “I get it.”

She took away the cloth and brought out the bandages. “I’m going to try and be as delicate as possible but this is probably going to hurt.”

“Yeah, let’s just do it.”

Slowly, very slowly, she wrapped the gauze around his arm. “What were you doing out on that road so late?”

“Halo.”

“Halo?”

He nodded. “It’s a video game.”

She chuckled. “I know what Halo is. My brother’s super into it. He goes to tournaments and stuff.”

“He any good?”

“No.”

He winced as she wrapped a little too tightly. “I had stayed a couple of hours at Maurice’s house…he’s my friend. We were playing games. Lost track of time. Wanted to be home before dinner. Mom gets pissed if I miss dinner. So I ran. It was only a couple of blocks and there’s a shortcut through the field. I didn’t even see you. I don’t even remember stepping on the road.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “If i had just taken you to a fucking hospital, none of this would have happened. I really thought you were dead. I don’t even know your name.”

She finished wrapping his arm. He looked up at her. “It’s Ashton,” he said.

“That’s a nice name. I’m Bailey.”

“You look like a Bailey.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I really hope so. Just be real with me. Am I going to die here?” He was breathing faster now but was looking straight into her eyes, searching for the truth.

“No,” she said, staring back. “I got you into this mess and I will get you out. But I need you to trust me, okay?”

“Do you swear?” The wall of strength he had put up ever since he woke up had fallen away and Bailey could hear the child in his voice, begging. There were tears at the edge of his eyes.

“I swear I will make sure that we both live through tonight.”

He nodded. “Okay,” he said, slackening his free hand’s grip on the box cutter.

*****

They turned off the interstate, back into Atlanta proper. The radio was cranked up, with Boston screeching “More Than a Feeling” and Jay nodding along. Neither of them had said a word. Pat had sat there but was not, as one might expect, shellshocked or even disgusted with the night’s events. He felt oddly at peace. 

They came to a light and Jay threw on his turn signal.  “You got a meanness in you,” Jay said suddenly. Pat looked up.

“Say again?”

The turn signal clicked rhythmically. “Don’t pretend that some part of you isn’t enjoying this. I’ve met all kinds and you sure as shit are high right now on the idea of getting away with it. Well, stick with me, do as I say, and you’ll be scot-free come sunrise. And y’know, maybe after all of this, there’s something at the agency for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

They turned. “I think you could be good at this kind of thing. Lord knows, I work with too many soft-bellies, y’know? They complain about the work. They’d rather stay in the office and do data entry or put together slideshows. But you, you get your hands in the muck. And you take to it real quick. Pay’s not too bad either. Just think on it. Would be a shame to see a man of your potential be reduced to something as flimsy as a CPA for the rest of his years.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Pat said uncertainly.

They pulled onto the lawn a few minutes later. Jay went inside the house first. Pat had just enough time to hear the man say “that’s interesting” before his eyes met the boy freed from the garage standing next to Bailey. She was holding a revolver he had gotten her as a gift and pointing it straight at Jay.  He felt his heart in his throat. “Baby…” he started.

“If you hurt my husband, I will put holes in your chest, sir.” She was holding the gun with both hands and they were shaking violently. Jay regarded the scene, eyes moving from her, to the boy who stood straight and stared up at him, both of them afraid but trying to bluff their way through it.

“Mrs. McGrath, I’m gonna ask once: put the gun down.”

“I’m warning you,” she said. “I will fire.”

Jay looked over at Pat and shrugged. “Sorry buddy. We’re gonna have to do this my way now.”

Jay took a step towards her.

“Stop moving!” Bailey shouted, her voice rising. “I’ll kill you,” she yelled. By the time she had finished screaming, he had crossed the room and gently put his hand over the gun, taking it from her. She was shocked to watch herself give away, without resistance, the only thing protecting her and Ashton.

“There we go,” Jay said, smiling. “No need for that. These are dangerous things.” He softly placed the revolver on the end table next to the lamp. And then he turned around, and — with full force — smashed his open palm across Bailey’s face.

She fell to the ground, slamming the back of her head into the floor. Her whole body vibrated as darkness flashed across her eyes. When her vision came back, Jay was on top of her with his hands wrapped around her throat. She tried to scream but only a small cry dug its way out of her throat. This man was truly going to kill her, she realized, looking into his eyes.

“What are you doing!?” she heard Pat scream. She could see him standing over her and Jay now, just on the outskirts of her vision. She could not see Ashton anywhere. She hoped that maybe he was running, had escaped in the chaos. 

“She doesn’t have it in her to keep things quiet,” the man killing her said.

She managed to raise her hands and slap his face but the effort was weak, like flowers brushing against a steel fence in the wind. 

“Come on sweetie,” Jay sneered. “Just go quietly. Set Pat free, huh?”

She turned her eyes to the blurry vision of her husband, which stood gazing down at the scene unfolding before him. The figure did not move. Time passed. Each second an eternity.  And then – 

“Help her!” Ashton screamed from somewhere beyond the encroaching haze.

At last, the figure moved, slamming its body into Jay. The two forms tumbled off her and the air surged through her throat as she burst into a cry not unlike that of a newborn child.

She felt a tug on her shirt and there was Ashton, helping to pull her into the kitchen, as the two men in the living room turned on each other.

Jay was rising from the floor when Pat slammed his fist into his face, knocking the hat clean from his head. His opponent stumbled but he did not stop his rise. He stooped over to pick up the hat and place it back neatly upon his scalp.

His lip was bleeding. He chuckled as Pat regarded him, the would-be customer’s fists raised and shaking. “Oh Pat, that is disappointing. I thought you were made of the right stuff, man.” From his jacket, he pulled the blade and unfolded it. “Guess this whole thing is a bit of a wash. Shame.”

“Man, I will give you all our money just to fuck off, okay?”

“Ain’t about the money, Pat. Job’s gotta get done, feel me? Now let’s get on with it, and I really hope you don’t make this easy on me. It’s been a while since I’ve had some fun.”

A tremendous vibration of pain shot across Pat’s back as Jay slammed him into the wall and thrust a knife into his left forearm. He screamed as the man twisted the blade and red poured down toward his fingers. 

Jay wrenched the blade from the meat. He raised it again but not quick enough. Pat leaned forward and clamped his teeth on Jay’s earlobe, pulling back as hard as he could. He felt sickening hot wetness spray his tongue and teeth a second before he heard Jay scream. The pressure on his body lifted suddenly.

“Jesus, you’ve got quite a pair of chompers on you.” Pat was opening his eyes. Jay was coming back toward him again. “I guess we’ll just have to settle for some good ol’ fashioned brain damage.”

He tried to lift himself away from the wall but Jay’s hand wrapped around the front of his skull and slammed it into the surface. Pain erupted at the back of his head, briefly splintering his vision. There was blood, warm and sticky in his hair. Jay was pulling his head back to do the motion again. This is it, Pat thought weakly, bracing, before a howl of pain went up from his attacker. 

Pat collapsed against the wall and slid down, watching Jay fall to the ground. As his vision steadied, he quickly understood what happened: the boy backing away as the box cutter fell from his hands, a rupture of blood and meat where Jay’s ankle once was.

Even with such a grievous wound, Jay wasted no time in turning on the child. He grabbed his knife from the floor and pulled himself toward Ashton with his free hand, smiling as he went. “Come here, you little shit.” 

The boy found himself backed into a corner of the living room, kicking feebly at the mad man’s head as he drew closer. One kick sent the hat flying from his head but that didn’t stop him from finally grabbing one of the child’s legs. 

Ashton and Pat watched in collective terror as the knife raised high, only to see another knife – white, cordless & electric – come down on the man’s fingers. Jay howled in pain, the ridged blade sawing through the index finger and red sprayed everywhere.

Above the howl there was a louder, hateful screech. “FUCK YOU!” Bailey was screaming, pushing the carving knife harder into the flesh of her would-be killer’s arm. “FUCK YOU!” she screamed again and again. 

The man grabbed the mangled meat of his hand and continued to cry, even calling out the name of god, but there would be no grace here. Bailey turned the blade on his face, wildly slashing as her war chant went on.

She had just cut away the tip of his nose when Pat’s arms wrapped around her and pulled up. “Move!” he yelled at her.

Jay’s eyes drifted up toward his client-turned-protege. Perhaps they could still work something out, Jay thought through all the pain. A deal to be made.

“Pat…” the torn lips flapped as he raised a mutilated hand up in plea for negotiation.

Pat brought his foot down on his skull. He raised it again. In the corner of the kitchen, Bailey wrapped up Ashton in her arms. “Don’t look,” she cried. Ashton didn’t need to be told twice.

The foot came down and rose and came back down again in a rhythm that grew splashier and thicker by the second.

When the sound of mulching ceased, Ashton looked up. There was nothing left attached to that man’s neck that resembled a head.

“Oh god,” Bailey said.

“Fucker’s dead,” Pat said with pure malice. He stepped over to Jay’s knife and picked it up. He held it in his hand for a few seconds and as though he were admiring its craftsmanship. Then he walked over to the front door and looked outside for a spell. Bailey watched him. At first she thought he was dazed but he was clearly acting with purpose.

She got to her feet and helped Ashton up, brought him around to the couch and sat him down. “Give me a second and we’ll get you to a hospital, okay?”

He nodded.

When she looked up, Pat had come back inside. There was a look on her husband’s face she had never seen before.

”I don’t think the neighbors heard anything,” he said. She understood his meaning instantly as his eyes drifted over to the boy. There was a cold sensation at the pit of her stomach, spreading.  “We have to call the police, Pat.”

Patrick turned away from her. “No, we don’t.” He walked over to the body and fished a pair of keys from the man’s pant pocket. “I can still take care of this.”

“Baby, what the hell are you talking about?” She inched closer to the end table.

“I can clean this up. Take him to where we took Chet. Leave him there. I’ll need your help. We got like five hours until sunlight to clean this up.” Pat’s eyes drifted over to Ashton. “And we can take care of our other problem at the same time.”

Bailey’s hands instinctively grabbed the revolver. She swung it so that the barrel lined up with her husband’s chest. “Run Ashton,” she said.

The boy left the couch and limped to the door as fast he could but stopped short of stepping outside. He turned back and watched. In spite of everything, he couldn’t leave her. Chances are he wouldn’t get far anyway if Pat went after him.

Bailey had her eyes fixed on her husband. She walked back slowly as he moved in her and Ashton’s direction. “Those head smacks made you a little crazy, baby. It’s done. We gotta call the police. It’s over.”

“No, we still need to clean up your mess, Bailey. I can do it. That bastard taught me how. I can fix this.” He was reaching into his pocket.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You’ll go to jail. I probably will too. That asshole was a psychopath but he was absolutely right: it’s us or the kid.”

“Then we’ll fucking go to jail. You aren’t harming him, Pat.”

“I can still take care of this.”

“I ain’t gonna say nothing to anybody, man,” Ashton said. 

The knife came out of the pocket, his eyes fixed on the boy.  Bailey’s hand continued to tremble but she did not move the barrel away from her husband. She planted her feet. “I will shoot you dead, Pat.” There were tears in her eyes. “Don’t make me do it.”

“Bailey, let me do what needs doing, god damn it.”

Pat took a step forward and then another, picking up speed.

Bailey pulled the trigger. Her whole arm jumped but she managed to hold onto the pistol. The shot went wide, shattering the lamp near the bathroom. 

He took another step.

She fired again. This one found its mark: shards of teeth and bits of meat blasted through a hole in the back of Pat’s skull. Her husband dropped like a sack and convulsed on the floor, choking and trying to feel where the wound in the back of his head was – as though somehow he could repair it, make himself whole again.

The gun fell from her hands as she ran to him. “Oh baby,” she said, bursting into tears. “Oh baby, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look at her once as the last fit took him away from her, from all of this. When he was gone, she put her face down in his chest and screamed.

Ashton stood still by the door, feet planted firmly, unable to move. “Ba…Bailey,” he said at last.

Without a word, the woman slowly rose and pulled her cellphone from her pocket. There was blood on her pale face. Her eyes met Ashton’s. She dialed a number on her phone and raised it to her ear.

A second later, she spoke. “Hello. Yes. My name is Bailey McGrath. I need to report some murders. Yes, that’s plural. Murders at this address.” She gave them the address. “No, this is not a joke. There is also a boy that needs help here. His name is Ashton. His mother has probably reported him missing. His arm is broken, I think….yes, we’ll wait here.”

She tossed the phone to the ground and walked over to Ashton. “I need you to go upstairs and wait. The police will be here soon. I will wait for them down here.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to wait alone.”

“Please,” she said.

He nodded and did as she asked, going upstairs. He went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. He wasn’t surprised when he heard the garage door open down below, nor when he looked out the window and saw the Mustang take off down the road, roaring in the middle of the night – a precursor to the sirens approaching from afar.

*****

His hospital room was small and brown. The bed was comfy. And now, just a couple of hours after the x-rays had been taken, it was morning and the sun was rising after the longest night in his life.

Two officers were sitting next to him. One a woman, the other a man. They had come bearing orange juice and Snickers and questions. He had answered them. It had taken them maybe an hour to go through all of them but now the woman was looking at him oddly.

“So,” she said. “Just to recap: Patrick McGrath hit you with his wife’s car and then his friend hired a man to come help clean up your body.”

“Yes, ma’am, they thought I was dead.”

“And then they tried to back out of it once they realized you were alive.”

“And that crazy fucker turned on them…sorry for the language.”

The man chuckled. “Son, if I had been through what you went through last night, I think I’d have more than a couple of swears. You’re fine.”

The woman was watching him carefully. “So this man – the one with his head caved in – killed Patrick’s friend, and buried him. When this man attacked the McGraths and you, the couple killed him in self defense? And then the husband tried to kill you and Mrs. McGrath to cover it all up… only for Mrs. McGrath to shoot him?”

Ashton nodded.

“You’re sure that’s what happened?” The woman’s eyes met his own. He found the nerve not to look away.

“Yes ma’am. Absolutely.”

“I have to say that some things don’t add up.”

“Then they don’t add up but that’s what happened.”

She frowned. “If Mrs. McGrath is innocent, why did she run?” 

He shrugged. “She’s just scared. Scared people do dumb things.”

The woman’s eyes continued to search his own for what felt like an eternity. At long last, she smiled. “Okay then, thanks for your cooperation, Ashton. We hope you get to feeling better soon. We might have more questions later.”

“Stop by anytime, officers,” he said.

When they were gone, he turned to look out the window, across Peachtree Road. The doctors had told him to settle in for a couple of days. His mother had brought him his Nintendo Switch and at least 10 bags of assorted chips and puffs for him to gorge himself on. Later, he would be bored and those things would be nice to pass the time.

But now, staring at the dawn, it was just so nice to be here.

*****

They caught up to her two days later at a gas station in Missouri, just off I-44. She had filled up the Mustang and was sitting in the seat staring at the GPS affixed to the dashboard when the officer appeared, gently tapping on her window.

“Mrs. McGrath? Bailey McGrath, is that you? Come on ma’am. We just want to have some words down at the station.”

Bailey sat there, looking out at the interstate leading toward a vast frontier filled with promise. How close she had been to disappearing into the folds of the unknown.

The officer tapped again. Patrick’s voice rang out in her head, laughing as he said Itty bitty pieces, Bailey. There won’t be enough of you left for them to soak up in a sponge!

The tapping again, this time more forceful. “Mrs. McGrath, please step out of the car.”

She thought of many things. She thought of jail, of the long open road stretching just beyond the gas station….of the revolver in her glovebox.

The officer went to tap the glass again.

And then Bailey made up her mind. 

Artist: Ollie Hoff

Ollie Hoff is a freelance illustrator and UI artist based in the UK. With a focus on bright colours and rough textures, Ollie creates fun and charming illustrations influenced by film and gaming.

You can find Ollie’s portfolio here.