Page 69 of Satisfied By the Slime
A statement, not a threat.
Headlights sweep across the window, painting the dust in brief yellow stripes.
A door opens and closes.
Footsteps on gravel, then the creak of the jailhouse door.
Gary enters carrying a grease-stained paper bag that has the words “Rosario’s Diner” printed on the side.
The smell hits me before he’s halfway across the room: salt, fat, the char of a flattop grill.
Captain’s head pokes from the open collar of his flannel, the cat’s eyes half-closed, purring loud enough to hear from here.
Gary sets the bag on the folding chair Mrs. Pritchett vacates when he enters. He pulls out foam containers, opens one to reveal a hamburger, the cheese melted on the patty in orange ribbons.
A container of fries.
A second burger.
He looks from the food to me, his expression unreadable.
“Brought enough for everyone,” he says. “Figured nobody atebreakfast.”
Maisie stirs, blinking awake. Her neck cracks when she straightens, and she winces, pressing her palm to the side of her spine.
Gary pushes a container toward her, then turns back to me.
He picks up the second burger and extends it through the bars, holding it flat on his palm the way you might offer an apple to a horse.
“I don’t know if you eat,” he says. “But Rosario’s makes ‘em good, and I thought maybe—”
I reach through the bars.
My fingers close around the burger, and I feel the warmth of it, the soft compression of the bun, the slick of grease on the paper wrapper.
Gary’s hand flinches but holds steady.
The food begins to break down the moment it enters my body.
The bun dissolves first, the carbohydrates separating into particles that vanish into my mass. The cheese follows, the fat absorbing in a bright burst I can taste like sunlight. Thepatty takes longer—protein and iron and the complex molecules of cooked meat—but it, too, disintegrates, collapsing into nothing as my body takes what it needs and discards the rest. The wrapper crumbles last, a faint chemical residue dissolving into my palm.
Gary’s hand is still extended, empty now, his fingers curled around air.
His mouth is slightly open.
Mrs. Pritchett has risen from her chair. She stands rigid, both hands flat on the table, staring at the space where the hamburger was.
The color has drained from her face.
“That’s—” she starts.
“Minerals,” I say. “Protein. Iron. I absorb what I need.”
“You absorbed the whole thing.” Gary closes his fingers slowly, like he’s checking that they still work. “Wrapper and all.”
“It was easier than separating them,” I explain.
Mrs. Pritchett makes a sound, something between a gasp and a word. Shepoints at me, her hand trembling, and her eyes are bright with tears.
