The Final Passenger

On rainy nights, the city never truly sleeps. Taxis glide through empty streets, carrying strangers toward destinations both ordinary and unknown. When a quiet woman and her young daughter step into a cab, they seem like just another family trying to get home. Yet beneath their calm smiles lies a mystery that defies explanation. As one late-night ride leads to another, unsettling questions begin to emerge, and the line between innocence and darkness grows increasingly blurred.

1

"Mommy, can we get the one with the sunflowers on it?" The girl's small fingers pressed against the taxi window, leaving smudges on the glass as she pointed at a passing car with peeling yellow decals.

The mother adjusted the straps of the child's overalls—bright red, slightly too big, the cuffs rolled up twice to keep them from dragging on the ground. At five, the girl was all knees and elbows, her dark hair tied into two uneven pigtails that swung as she bounced in her seat. "Not that one, sweetheart," the mother said, smoothing a hand over her daughter's head. "We need a nice, clean taxi. One that smells like air freshener, not cigarettes."

The next car that pulled over was a late-model sedan, its interior spotless, the dashboard free of clutter except for a laminated permit and a half-empty bottle of orange juice wedged in the cup holder. The driver, a man in his late thirties with a receding hairline and a neatly trimmed mustache, gave them a polite nod as they climbed in. "Where to?"

The mother rattled off an address—somewhere on the edge of town, past the old warehouse district—before settling back into the seat with a sigh. The girl immediately kicked her legs, her scuffed sneakers thumping against the back of the passenger seat. "Preschoolers shouldn't fidget," the mother chided gently, but there was no real reproach in her voice. She dug into her purse and pulled out a juice box, the kind with the little straw already attached. "Here. Drink this so you don't get thirsty."

The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the girl slurping noisily at her juice box. "Long drive," he remarked, tapping the GPS. "You folks visiting someone out there?"

"Mm." The mother unscrewed the cap of her own drink—something pulpy and dark in a reusable bottle—and took a slow sip. "Family business." She held the bottle toward the front seat. "Thirsty? It's fresh-squeezed."

The driver hesitated, then accepted with a chuckle. "Don't mind if I do. Always forget my water bottle." He took two long gulps before handing it back.

The girl giggled, kicking her feet again. "Mommy, tell the story!"

"Which one, darling?" The mother's voice was syrup-sweet as she tucked a stray pigtail behind the girl's ear. "The one about the princess who ate her pony?"

"No!" The girl's laughter was bright, almost melodic. "The one about the bad man who got lost in the woods!"

The driver chuckled, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel. His knuckles looked strangely pale. "Sounds like a scary story for such a little lady."

The mother's smile didn't waver. "Oh, she loves scary stories. Don't you, pumpkin?" She leaned forward slightly, her breath misting the divider glass. "Once upon a time, there was a very naughty man who thought he could take shortcuts through the forest..."

The driver's chuckle died in his throat as his fingers locked around the wheel. His knuckles had gone bone-white, tendons standing rigid like piano wires. "Funny," he slurred, blinking too slowly. The highway blurred at the edges of his vision—taillights smearing into red streaks, the dashed lines on the asphalt wobbling like caterpillars.

"Funny how?" The girl's voice was a singsong chirp as she clapped her sticky hands. Juice box forgotten, she leaned forward, pigtails bobbing. "Funny like when the bad man fell down the well and the worms ate his eyeballs?"

The mother shushed her gently, patting her knee. "Now, now, sweet pea. Let's not spoil the ending." She watched the driver's pupils dilate in the rearview mirror, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried—and failed—to swallow. His foot slipped off the accelerator. The car coasted to a stop in the middle of the abandoned access road, gravel crunching under the tires.

"You know what's really funny?" The mother unbuckled her seatbelt with a soft *click*. The sound made the driver flinch, though his arms remained limp at his sides. "How many people still accept drinks from strangers." She reached over to stroke his cheek, her thumb catching on the stubble. "You're very trusting for a man who drives women to empty parking lots at night."

The driver's breath came in wet, shallow gasps, his lips trembling around words that wouldn’t form. His eyelids fluttered like moth wings caught in honey, but his body remained slumped against the seat, rigid as a department store mannequin. The mother sighed, tapping his cheek with mock sympathy. "Oh, don’t look so scared. It’s just a little paralysis. Temporary, mostly." She glanced at her daughter, who was now kneeling on the seat, her overalls hiked up to her thighs. "Isn’t that right, peanut?"

The girl nodded vigorously, her pigtails bouncing. "Like when you pin the butterfly!" she chirped, miming a stabbing motion with her juice box straw. The driver’s strangled whimper only made her giggle harder. "Mommy, his face is all twisty!" She reached out and poked his cheek, leaving a sticky fingerprint. "Like when you poke pudding!"

The mother chuckled, rummaging in her oversized tote bag. "Darling, remember what we talked about? Manners." She pulled out a switchblade—the kind with a pearl handle, something that might’ve been pretty if it weren’t for the dried rust flecks near the hinge. "Even when they’re *helping* us, we say thank you."

The girl clasped her hands together, her grin splitting her face wide. "Thank you, Mister Taxi Man!" she singsonged, scrambling onto his lap like he was a favorite uncle. His breath hitched as her small hands patted his chest, her nose wrinkling. "Ew, he’s all sweaty."

The driver's breath came in ragged, wet hitches, his throat working uselessly against the invisible weight pressing down on his lungs. The mother leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Shhh, shhh—it's alright. You're doing so *well*." Her fingers curled around the switchblade, the click of the release echoing like a gunshot in the cramped car. The girl clapped again, her knees digging into the driver's thighs as she bounced in anticipation.

"Mommy, can I do the honors?" she asked, eyes wide with the kind of eager innocence usually reserved for birthday cake.

"Not this time, sugarplum," the mother murmured, pressing a kiss to the girl's forehead. "You're still working on your knife skills." She traced the blade along the driver's jugular, a lover's caress, before pressing down. The skin parted like overripe fruit, blood welling up in a thick, dark rush. The girl squealed with delight as it splattered across her overalls, the red blending seamlessly into the fabric.

"Oh, *messy*," she giggled, swiping a finger through the stream and bringing it to her lips. She smacked her tongue experimentally, then beamed. "Salty!"

The driver's body jerked once, a final spasm that sent his head lolling against the seatbelt strap, his throat gaping like a second mouth. The mother watched with clinical interest as his pupils dilated one last time, then fixed in that glassy, distant stare she'd come to know so well. "See, pumpkin?" she murmured, wiping the blade on his shirt collar. "That's how you know they're done."

The girl nodded solemnly, then immediately ruined the effect by sticking her entire hand into the wound, wiggling her fingers like she was checking for loose change. "It's *squishy* inside!" she crowed, pulling out a string of something glistening and holding it up to the dome light. The mother chuckled, ruffling her hair—now streaked with flecks of arterial spray—before reaching into her tote again. This time, she produced a Ziploc baggie of wet wipes and a Tupperware container.

"Here," she said, popping the lid off with her thumb. "Start with the cheeks. They're the tenderest." She handed the girl a paring knife—smaller than the switchblade, with a neon pink handle shaped like a unicorn. The girl took it with the reverence of a surgeon accepting a scalpel, then immediately plunged it into the driver's face with a wet *schluck*.

The mother hummed as she worked, occasionally correcting the girl's technique ("No, sweetie, *against* the grain—like buttering toast") or pausing to dab at a particularly enthusiastic spatter on the girl's forehead. The car smelled like copper and orange juice now, the air thick with the metallic tang of fresh slaughter. Outside, a lone streetlight flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt.

The girl's unicorn knife slipped, carving a jagged line down the driver's cheekbone. "Oopsie," she said, giggling as a fat drop of blood plopped onto her shoe. She licked her lips, leaving a red smear. "Tastes like pennies!"

The mother nodded approvingly, her own fingers deep in the man's abdomen, peeling back layers like she was unwrapping a gift. "Liver's still warm," she murmured, holding up the glistening organ. It trembled slightly in her grip, slick with fluids. "Want to try?"

The girl wrinkled her nose. "Too squishy."

"Fair enough." The mother shrugged, popping the liver into her own mouth like a grape. She chewed thoughtfully. "Needs salt."

The girl clambered onto the dashboard, her bloody sneakers leaving smeared prints across the speedometer as she balanced precariously over the steering wheel. "Mommy, can we make his eyes into marbles?" she asked, poking a finger into the driver's half-lidded socket. The gelatinous orb gave way with a wet *pop*.

"Next time," the mother promised, wriggling her fingers deeper into the abdominal cavity. Her wedding ring—a simple silver band—glinted under the dome light as she yanked free a fistful of intestine. "Ah-ha!" She held it up like a trophy, the slick coil dripping onto the gearshift. "Look, peanut. This one's extra long. Like licorice!"

The girl shrieked with laughter, grabbing the end and spinning in a clumsy circle until the intestine snapped, sending her tumbling into the backseat. She emerged seconds later, her pigtails tangled with gore, clutching the severed piece triumphantly. "I win!"

The mother smiled, wiping her hands on the driver's polo shirt before reaching for the Tupperware again. She'd packed it with ice packs underneath—professionalism mattered, even in their line of work. "Alright, time to wrap up," she said, arranging the choicest cuts into neat rows. The driver's thigh meat made perfect pink rectangles, like lunchbox sandwiches.

The girl pressed her face against the driver's gaping chest cavity, blowing raspberries into the hollow space where his lungs had been. The resulting noise was a wet, bubbling gurgle that sent her into peals of laughter. "Mommy, listen! He's *singing!*"

The mother chuckled, patting the Tupperware lid snugly over their haul. "That’s his goodbye song, honeybee." She reached into the tote again—miraculously unstained despite the carnage—and produced two neatly folded outfits: a sunflower-print dress for the girl, and a modest blouse-and-slacks combo for herself. "Change time. And remember—"

"Wipe *first*," the girl recited, already scrubbing her arms with a wet wipe, the pink fabric turning rust-brown as she worked. She made a game of it, twisting like a contortionist to reach a spot between her shoulder blades. "Did I miss any?"

The mother turned her by the shoulders, inspecting like a nurse before a school play. "Just a little behind your ear." She dabbed at it, then kissed the now-clean spot. "Perfect. Now hold still." With practiced efficiency, she wrestled the dress over the girl’s head, smoothing the wrinkles as the hem settled around scabbed knees.

The mother buttoned the last button on her blouse, adjusting the collar with a prim efficiency that would've looked at home in a corporate boardroom. The girl twirled in her sunflower dress, the skirt flaring out—no trace of blood left, except maybe a faint pink tinge under her fingernails that could pass for juice stains.

"You forgot something," the girl said suddenly, stopping mid-spin to point at the driver's slumped form. His wallet peeked out from his back pocket, the leather worn shiny from years of use.

The mother tsked, plucking it free with two fingers like she was handling a used tissue. "Good catch, button." She flipped it open, thumbing through the bills before tucking them into her own purse. The driver's license fluttered to the floorboards—his face smiling stiffly in the DMV photo, utterly unaware of the gaping hollow where his face used to be.

The girl picked it up, squinting at the birthdate. "He was old," she declared, wrinkling her nose before tossing it onto his lap. It landed in the mess of his opened abdomen with a wet slap.

The mother checked her reflection in the rearview mirror—smooth skin, tidy bun, not a fleck of evidence—then clicked her tongue. "Almost forgot." She reached into the tote's side pocket and produced two lollipops, still in their crinkly wrappers. "Dessert," she said, handing one to the girl, who accepted it with a sticky, bloodless hand.

The girl popped the candy into her mouth, sucking noisily as she watched her mother wipe down the door handles with a bleach wipe. "Mommy," she said around the lollipop, "can we get ice cream after?"

"Of course, sugarplum." The mother chucked the used wipes into the footwell with the rest of the mess—no need to be *too* tidy when the car would be found abandoned in a quarry by morning. She straightened the girl's collar, then paused to pluck a single blonde hair from the upholstery. "But first, we stop at the laundromat. Sunflower dresses don't wash themselves."

The girl nodded sagely, twirling the lollipop stick between her fingers like a tiny baton. Outside, the streetlight buzzed once before going out entirely, plunging the taxi into darkness save for the glow of the dashboard clock—11:47 PM, blinking cheerfully as if nothing were amiss.

The girl pressed her nose against the taxi window, fogging the glass with each excited breath as the laundromat's neon sign flickered into view. "Mommy, can I push the buttons on the machine?" she asked, bouncing on her toes despite the mother's firm grip on her hand.

"Only if you promise not to lick them this time," the mother replied, her tone light as she shouldered open the laundromat's dented metal door. The place smelled of cheap detergent and mildew, the hum of industrial dryers drowning out the distant wail of a police siren.

2

A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting jaundiced light over rows of washers. The mother selected a machine in the far corner—strategic, the girl noted, where the security camera's blind spot swallowed them whole. She watched as her mother shook out the sunflower dress, inspecting it with the critical eye of a museum curator before loading it into the drum.

"Coin," the girl demanded, holding out a palm already sticky with melted lollipop. The mother obliged, placing a quarter in her hand with exaggerated solemnity. The girl stood on tiptoe to slot it into the machine, her tongue poking out in concentration before she slammed the door shut with a clang.

The washing machine shuddered to life with a groan, sloshing water violently against the glass. The girl pressed her palms against the vibrating metal, giggling as the tremors traveled up her arms. "It's like riding a rollercoaster!" she declared, wobbling her knees dramatically.

The mother checked her watch—11:53 PM—then glanced toward the street. A flicker of movement caught her eye: a stray dog sniffing at a discarded takeout container. She exhaled through her nose. "Thirty-five minutes," she murmured, more to herself than to the girl, who was now spinning in slow circles beneath the flickering light.

"Mommy," the girl said abruptly, stopping mid-spin. Her lollipop stick was chewed to splinters. "Does blood come out in hot or cold water?"

The mother didn't look up from her phone, where she was scrolling through local news alerts. "Cold, darling. Hot sets the proteins."

The laundromat's dryers thumped rhythmically, a mechanical heartbeat beneath the girl's humming. She traced her finger along the folding table's cigarette burns, her reflection warped in the stainless steel as she leaned too close. "Mommy," she whispered, her breath fogging the metal, "the bubbles are pink."

The mother glanced over. Sure enough, frothy pink water sloshed against the washer's glass, swirling like candy floss. She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear—still pristine, still perfect. "That's the magic of cold water, peanut. Turns murder into laundry day."

Outside, the stray dog let out a yelp as it dragged the takeout container into the alley. The sound made the girl clap her hands. "Can we feed him the yucky parts next time? The gristly bits?"

"Only if he sits first," the mother said absently, scrolling past a news alert about a missing jogger. She paused at a sidebar ad—50% off back-to-school shoes—and made a mental note to stop by the mall tomorrow. Preschoolers grew so fast.

The dryer buzzed sharply, jolting the girl from her lazy orbit around the folding table. She scampered to the machine, pressing her nose against the warm glass to watch the sunflower dress tumble inside. "It's done!" she announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

The mother slid a folded dollar bill into the change machine, catching the quarters that clattered out with one hand. "Patience, button," she chided gently, dropping coins into the dryer slot. The drum whirred back to life, sending the dress into another dizzying spiral. The girl groaned dramatically, flopping onto the folding table with enough force to make the metal legs screech.

A shadow moved outside—just the flicker of headlights passing by, but the mother's fingers twitched toward her tote bag anyway. The girl noticed, her eyes tracking the movement with predatory focus. "Is someone *bad* coming?" she whispered, the words tinged with hopeful anticipation.

"No, sugarplum." The mother smoothed a hand over the girl's hair, her fingers lingering on the slight stickiness behind one ear. "Just cautious."

The dryer's final buzz cut through the laundromat's stale air like a dull alarm. The girl shot up from the folding table, her sunflower dress tumbling to a stop behind the fogged glass. "Now can we get ice cream?" she pleaded, pressing both palms against the dryer's warm metal.

The mother unlatched the door with a practiced flick of her wrist. Steam curled out as she lifted the dress—pristine now, the fabric soft and smelling faintly of chemical lavender. She held it up to the light, checking the seams for any stubborn stains the girl might have missed. "Vanilla or chocolate?" she asked, folding the dress into a neat square.

"Both!" The girl twirled on the sticky linoleum, her sneakers squeaking. "With sprinkles. And *blood* syrup."

The mother chuckled, tucking the dress into her tote. "You've had enough iron for one night, button." She glanced at the wall clock—12:17 AM—then toward the street, where a lone sedan idled at the red light. The driver was hunched over his phone, oblivious. "But sprinkles are negotiable."

The ice cream parlor's bell jingled as they pushed inside, the scent of waffle cones and artificial strawberry hitting them like a carnival. The girl pressed her face against the glass display case, leaving smudges on the pristine surface. "Mommy, the rainbow one looks like intestines!" she stage-whispered, pointing at the swirl of neon sherbet.

The mother ruffled her hair—now clean, now perfect—before tapping the counter. "Two scoops of mint chip, please. And a single vanilla with extra sprinkles." She leaned down conspiratorially to the girl. "We'll pretend they're bone fragments."

The clerk, a pimpled teenager with earbuds dangling from one ear, barely glanced up as he scooped. The girl watched, rapt, as the ice cream ball plopped onto the cone with a wet splat. "Do it again!" she demanded, bouncing until her pigtails swung. The clerk sighed, digging the scoop in harder this time—too hard. The ice cream splattered across the counter like a tiny, dairy explosion.

The girl shrieked with laughter, clapping her sticky hands. "It's *brains!*"

The clerk blinked at the splattered mint chip pooling across the countertop, then at the giggling girl whose eyes shone with unholy glee. "Uh," he said, prodding the mess with his scoop. "You want me to—"

"No need, sweetie," the mother interjected, sliding a twenty across the glass before he could finish. "Keep the change." She plucked the intact vanilla cone from his limp fingers and handed it to the girl, who immediately took an enthusiastic bite, sprinkles cascading down her front like colorful shrapnel.

Outside, the street was eerily quiet—no sirens, no footsteps, just the intermittent flicker of a dying neon sign across the road. The mother guided the girl to a sticky booth by the window, where they could watch the empty sidewalk while she licked her own cone with deliberate slowness.

The girl kicked her legs under the table, her sneakers thumping against the vinyl seat. "Mommy," she mumbled around a mouthful of melting vanilla, "can we do another taxi tomorrow?"

The mother tapped her spoon against her mint chip, considering. The ice cream parlor's flickering neon sign cast jagged shadows across her face—one moment soft, the next all angles. "Depends, pumpkin. Did you finish your vegetables today?"

The girl scowled, scrunching her nose until her sprinkles fell into her lap. "Yuck. Vegetables are *squishy.*" She mimed gagging, then brightened immediately. "But taxi men are *crunchy!* Like chips!"

A muffled snort came from the counter where the clerk was pretending not to eavesdrop while wiping down the mint chip explosion. The mother's smile didn't waver as she slid a napkin across the table to catch the girl's dripping cone. "Then we'll have to find you a nice, *crispy* one next time." She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Maybe one with a mustache. Those tickle when they scream."

The girl dissolved into giggles, kicking her legs so hard her sneaker flew off and hit the window with a dull *thunk.* Outside, the flickering neon finally died with a pathetic sizzle, plunging the street into darkness save for the ice cream parlor's sickly yellow glow.

The clerk flinched when the little girl's shoe hit the glass. His gaze darted between the sticky counter and the booth where the mother was now using a napkin to wipe sprinkles from her daughter's chin with exaggerated care. He opened his mouth—maybe to ask about the shoe, maybe to comment on the giggling that had taken on a distinctly un-childlike edge—but the mother's smile froze him mid-breath. It wasn't threatening. That was the worst part. It was the smile of a woman who'd just remembered where she left her car keys.

"Button," the mother murmured, stroking the girl's cheek with her thumb, "you've made a mess for the nice young man." She didn't look at the clerk as she said it, but her fingers twitched toward her tote bag—just once, just enough to make the kid's Adam's apple bob like a fishing float.

The girl squirmed free, hopping down to retrieve her sneaker. She paused mid-crouch, her nose wrinkling. "Mommy," she stage-whispered, poking at something beneath the table, "someone *died* here." She held up a half-melted gummy bear, its red coating smeared across the linoleum in a shape that might've been a handprint if you squinted.

The mother's laugh was a wind chime in a graveyard. "Everyone dies somewhere, honeybee." She plucked the gummy from the girl's fingers and popped it into her own mouth, crunching down on the stale sugar with relish. "Some places just... recycle better than others."

The clerk's fingers trembled as he wiped down the same spot on the counter for the third time, his eyes darting to the booth where the girl was now methodically peeling sprinkles off her dress and sticking them to the window in a lopsided smiley face. The mother watched her with the affectionate patience of someone observing a kitten batting at yarn, her mint chip cone untouched except for a single, surgical bite.

"Mommy," the girl whispered, pressing a sprinkle into place with solemn intensity, "can we take *him* home?" She jerked her chin toward the clerk, who dropped his rag with a wet splat.

The mother sighed, brushing a nonexistent crumb from her blouse. "Darling, we talked about this. No more strays until you finish the last one." She reached into her tote and produced a Tupperware container—just enough space left for a small, cheek-sized portion. "See? Still full."

The girl pouted, scrubbing her sticky hands on her dress. "But he's *scared.*" She said it like it was a selling point, like the clerk's pallor and shaky breaths were seasoning. "Scared tastes *better.*"

The clerk's knees knocked together audibly as he backed into the soda machine, sending a cascade of loose coins rattling to the floor. The girl's head snapped toward the sound with the precision of a falcon spotting prey, her pigtails swinging. "Oopsie," she singsonged, skipping over to where the coins still spun on the tiles. She crouched, plucking a quarter from the ground and holding it up to the flickering light. "Look, Mommy—*eyeball* money!"

The mother sighed, nudging the Tupperware lid closed with her thumb. "Drop it, peanut. We don't take tips from the help." She stood, smoothing her slacks with a prim efficiency that made the clerk whimper—a sound that died in his throat when the girl suddenly pressed the cold coin against his trembling hand.

"Here," she chirped, her sticky fingers leaving red streaks on his wrist. "For being *extra* nice." Her smile showed every single baby tooth.

The clerk's breath hitched as the mother's shadow fell across them both. She plucked the quarter from his palm with tweezer-like precision. "Manners, darling," she murmured, pocketing the coin before ruffling the girl's hair. "We *tip* the help. We don't *feed* them."

The clerk's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as he shuffled backward, his fingers leaving sweaty prints on the soda machine. The mother tilted her head, studying him like a particularly bland menu item. "Run along now, sweetheart," she said, flicking her wrist toward the kitchen doors. The clerk bolted like a spooked deer, his apron strings flapping.

The girl pouted, kicking a stray sprinkle across the floor. "He dropped his *name tag*," she whined, holding up the plastic rectangle between thumb and forefinger like a forensic investigator. "Jason. With a *J.*" She said it like it was the saddest thing in the world.

"Jasons are *chewy,*" the mother lied smoothly, tucking the Tupperware back into her tote. She snapped her fingers twice—sharp, percussive clicks that made the girl's head jerk up. "Eyes on the prize, button. We've got a *special* errand tomorrow." She leaned in, her whisper a conspiratorial curl of breath against the girl's ear. "School shopping."

The girl's nose wrinkled. "School's *boring.*" She dragged the word out into three petulant syllables, scuffing her sneaker against a gum stain shaped vaguely like Florida. "Teacher makes us *share.*"

The mother's smile curled like a razorblade left in the sun. "Oh, but *this* sharing is different," she murmured, plucking the name tag from the girl's fingers and slipping it into her pocket with a magician's flourish. Outside, a streetlight buzzed on—just in time to catch the way the clerk's shadow trembled behind the kitchen's porthole window. "Remember Mrs. Peabody's little... *field trip* last spring?"

The girl's eyes widened, her ice cream-smeared lips parting in a gasp. "With the *scissors*?"

"Mm-hmm." The mother dabbed at the girl's chin with a napkin, her touch lingering just long enough to leave a faint red smudge no one would notice unless they knew where to look. "And tomorrow, you get to bring *show-and-tell.*"

The girl's squeal made the soda machine shudder. She launched herself at her mother, wrapping sticky arms around her neck with enough force to topple a lesser woman. The mother caught her effortlessly, one hand steadying the Tupperware still nestled in her tote.

The clerk's name tag clinked against the quarters in the mother's pocket as they stepped onto the deserted sidewalk. The girl skipped ahead, her sunflower dress flaring with each bounce, her lollipop stick—salvaged from the trash—now serving as an impromptu drumstick against parking meters. *Tap-tap-tap-tap-CRACK.* The plastic snapped against a fire hydrant.

"Oopsie," she giggled, twirling the broken halves like batons.

The mother hummed, scanning the street. A lone taxi idled at the intersection, its rooftop light off. Perfect. She crouched, catching the girl's wrists mid-twirl. "Remember our game?" she whispered, pressing a quarter into one sticky palm. "Heads or tails?"

The girl's pupils dilated. "Heads *screams* more," she breathed, squeezing the coin until the ridges bit into her skin.

The quarter spun through the air with a dull flicker of streetlight against silver—once, twice—before landing heads-up in the mother's palm with a wet slap from the girl's sticky fingers. The girl clapped her hands, her sneakers scuffing impatient circles on the pavement. "Heads! Heads! That means *loud!*"

The mother tucked the coin into her pocket alongside Jason's name tag, her other hand already raised in a practiced hail. The taxi's brake lights flared red as it rolled toward them, the driver's face a pale oval behind the windshield. "Evening," the mother chirped as the window rolled down, her voice all suburban sweetness. "Could you take us to the Elm Street preschool? My little one has her first day tomorrow." She squeezed the girl's shoulder—a silent cue.

The girl beamed up at the driver, her smile a row of tiny bone-white tombstones. "I'm *five*," she announced, holding up all five fingers, the webbing between them still faintly pink from scrubbing. "And three-quarters!"

The driver—balding, mustached, reeking of cheap cologne and cheaper decisions—grunted. "Hop in." The door locks clicked open with a sound like a mousetrap springing.

The taxi's vinyl seats stuck to the backs of the girl's thighs as she clambered onto her mother's lap, her sandpaper voice already launching into an enthusiastic description of her new backpack ("*purple* with *bloodstains*—no Mommy, *real* ones!"). The driver chuckled, adjusting his rearview mirror to catch the mother's eye. "Kids say the darndest things, huh?" His mustache twitched above a nicotine-stained smile.

The mother's returning grin showed exactly thirty-two teeth. "Oh, you have *no* idea." Her hand dipped into her tote bag with the casual grace of a magician reaching for doves. The girl watched, rapt, as her mother produced a juice box—straw already inserted—and leaned forward between the seats. "Long shift?" she asked, pressing the drink into the driver's free hand with sisterly concern. "You look parched."

The driver hesitated for only a heartbeat before accepting, his calloused fingers brushing the mother's manicured ones. The girl held her breath as the straw met his lips—then exhaled in a giggly rush when he took his first noisy sip. "Mmm. Peach?" He smacked his lips, already reaching for another draw.

The mother's eyelashes fluttered. "With just a *hint* of arsenic," she murmured, so low only the girl could hear. The child stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle a snort, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

The driver took another long pull from the juice box, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in troubled water. The girl watched, fascinated, as a single bead of sweat trickled down his temple—right on cue. "Mommy," she whispered, poking the mother's ribs with a sticky finger, "he's *leaking.*"

The mother shushed her gently, her fingers already working the tote bag's zipper with practiced ease. Outside, the streetlights began their nightly suicide one by one, plunging the taxi into pools of intermittent darkness. The driver yawned cavernously, his grip slackening on the wheel. "Damn," he slurred, blinking at the suddenly blurry road signs. "Must be more tired than I—"

His sentence ended in a wet gurgle as his chin hit his chest, the juice box tumbling into the footwell with a plastic crinkle. The taxi veered gently toward the shoulder, tires crunching on gravel before coasting to a stop beneath a dead oak tree.

3

The girl clapped her hands, her sneakers kicking the back of the driver's seat with rhythmic thumps. "He's *sleeping!*" she crowed, scrambling over the center console to poke at his flaccid cheek. Her finger left a dimple that didn't spring back. "Look, Mommy—he's *squishy* now!"

The driver's mustache twitched—not from movement, but from the girl's eager poking. A thin line of drool connected his lower lip to his uniform shirt, glistening under the dashboard lights like a spider's silk. The mother reached over and adjusted his head with the detached precision of a librarian reshelving books, tilting it just so against the headrest. "Give him five minutes, button," she murmured, checking her watch. "The good juice needs time to marinate."

The girl flopped back into her seat, kicking her legs impatiently. Her sneaker left a dusty print on the glove compartment. "Can I draw on him while we wait?" She already had a purple crayon in hand, salvaged from some forgotten pocket.

"Only if you stay above the collar," the mother said absently, rolling down her window to let in the smell of damp earth and distant highway exhaust. A moth fluttered against the dome light before spiraling into the driver's open mouth. The girl shrieked with delight.

She went to work with the crayon, tongue poking out in concentration as she gave the driver elaborate clown eyebrows that curled up at the ends. The waxy lines gleamed under the intermittent streetlight. "Mommy," she whispered, pausing mid-stroke, "do you think his kids will recognize him at the funeral?"

The mother chuckled, plucking a stray crayon fleck from the driver's slack cheek. "Oh, honeybee," she murmured, tilting his head to admire her daughter's handiwork, "there won't *be* a funeral." The crayon snapped between the girl's fingers as she leaned in, her breath fogging the windshield with eager curiosity.

The mother reached into her tote, producing a roll of duct tape with a metallic *shink*. "Remember our rules," she said, tearing off a strip with her teeth. The sound made the girl clap her hands—a wet slap of residual stickiness. "No IDs, no dental records, no..." She paused, pressing the tape over the driver's license still clipped to his sun visor. "*Paperwork.*"

The girl nodded sagely, mimicking the motion by slapping a crayon-drawn mustache over the driver's real one. His breath came in shallow wheezes now, each exhale fluttering the moth still trapped in his mouth. The mother watched, rapt, as her daughter carefully peeled back one of his eyelids to color the whites a festive purple.

"Mommy," the girl gasped suddenly, pointing at the dashboard clock—12:47 AM, the numbers glowing an unholy green. "It's *magic hour!*" She said it with the reverence other children reserved for birthdays or Christmas morning.

The mother checked her watch—a delicate gold thing that had once belonged to a woman whose bones now fertilized a soybean field—and smiled. "So it is." She reached into her tote, fingers brushing the Tupperware's cool surface before emerging with a small, pearl-handled switchblade. The click of its release sounded like a popcorn kernel bursting.

The girl pressed her face against the driver's slack cheek, her breath fogging his stubble. "Can I do the *thing* this time?" she whispered, fingers twitching toward the knife.

"Patience, pumpkin." The mother traced the blade along the driver's jugular, leaving a faint pink line that beaded with sweat rather than blood. "First we see if he *dreams.*"

The driver's eyelids fluttered—not from consciousness, but from some primal reflex as the knife's tip danced over his pulse point. A thin whimper escaped his lips, sending the moth tumbling onto his lap like a crumpled party favor.

The driver's breath hitched—a wet, staccato sound—as the mother pressed the blade just deep enough to dimple his skin without breaking it. The girl's pupils dilated, her crayon hovering mid-air like a conductor's baton. "Is he scared yet?" she whispered, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of melted sprinkles at the corner of her mouth.

"Mm." The mother tilted her head, studying the way the man's eyelids twitched in REM sleep. "Not scared enough." She flicked the knife upward, catching the edge of his shirt collar and slicing through the fabric with a sound like tearing lettuce. The girl giggled, scrawling a lopsided smiley face over his exposed collarbone.

Outside, an owl hooted—once, twice—before falling silent. The mother's fingers danced over the driver's throat, counting pulses between breaths. "Three... two..." She paused, letting the anticipation coil tight in the air like a spring. The girl held her breath, her crayon snapping in her fist.

The knife flashed. Blood welled up in a perfect crimson line, beading along the edge before spilling over in a warm rush. The girl shrieked with delight as it splattered across her overalls, painting the sunflowers scarlet. "Mommy, it's *fountain* blood!" she crowed, cupping her hands beneath the stream.

The driver's hands spasmed against the steering wheel—weak, involuntary twitches that made the girl clap her sticky palms together with each jerk. "Look! He's *dancing!*" she squealed, bouncing on the vinyl seat until her pigtails slapped against her cheeks. The mother hushed her gently, pressing a finger to her lips even as her other hand angled the driver's head to maximize the arterial spray. Blood pattered against the dashboard like summer rain.

The girl scrambled onto her knees, leaning over the center console to catch the crimson rivulets in her cupped hands. She brought them to her lips with ceremonial slowness, her tongue darting out to taste the metallic warmth. "Yummy," she declared, smearing the remainder across her cheeks like war paint. The mother chuckled, using the switchblade's tip to flick a stray droplet from the girl's nose.

"You missed a spot, button." The knife traced a playful arc through the air before sinking back into the driver's throat with a wet *schick.* The girl watched, rapt, as her mother worked the blade with the precision of a sculptor—carving away anything too identifiable, anything that might slow down the next errand. The driver's mustache landed in the girl's lap with a damp plop. She held it up to her own lip, giggling when it refused to stick.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the oak's skeletal branches against the taxi's roof. The sound made the girl glance up sharply, her eyes gleaming with sudden inspiration. "Mommy," she whispered, clutching the mustache like a sacred relic, "can we *plant* him?" She gestured wildly toward the tree, her fingers flexing like roots seeking soil. "So he grows *more* taxis!"

The mother's laughter peeled through the taxi like a knife through cellophane. "Oh, sugarplum," she cooed, wiping blood from the girl's chin with her thumb, "taxis don't *grow* on trees." She plucked the mustache from the girl's sticky fingers and held it up to the moonlight, examining the follicular landscape like a botanist inspecting a rare specimen. "But *this* might make a lovely bookmark."

The driver's head lolled against the headrest, his carotid now a gaping second smile beneath his chin. Blood pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, a dark mirror reflecting the girl's delighted grin. She dipped two fingers into the well and painted stripes across her cheeks, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop. "Salty," she pronounced, wrinkling her nose. "Like pretzels!"

"Mm. Needs seasoning." The mother reached into her tote and produced a small spice jar labeled *PARSLEY* in cheerful green letters. She unscrewed the lid with her teeth and dusted the driver's wound with practiced flair. The girl clapped her hands, sending flecks of blood spattering against the windshield like macabre confetti.

The taxi's overhead light flickered—once, twice—before dying with a sizzle. The sudden darkness made the girl gasp, her fingers closing around the mother's wrist like a vice. "Mommy," she whispered, her breath hot against the mother's ear, "is he *haunting* us already?"

The mother's chuckle vibrated through the girl's grip. "Ghosts are *slow*, pumpkin. They need time to pickle." She flicked the switchblade open again—the sound like a bone snapping—and used it to fish the moth from the driver's lap. Its wings fluttered weakly as she impaled it on the tip. "See? Even bugs take *hours* to haunt properly."

The girl watched, mesmerized, as the moth's legs curled inward like tiny fists. A single drop of hemolymph plopped onto the dashboard. "Can we *speed* it up?" she whispered, already digging through her pockets for the broken crayon. "Like in the microwave with Mrs. Peabody's—"

The mother's hand closed over hers. "Patience makes perfect, button." She tilted the driver's head back with clinical precision, exposing the gaping wound like a grotesque necklace. "First we *harvest*, then we *season*..." Her blade traced downward, parting fabric with surgical neatness. The girl leaned in so close her nose almost touched the incision.

Something in the driver's chest made a wet *pop* as the knife tip found its mark. The girl gasped. "Mommy! His *heart* looks like a *jellybean!*" She reached out with both hands, fingers twitching.

The mother's blade paused mid-incision, the tip hovering over the driver's twitching pericardium like a hummingbird deciding which flower to plunder. "Jellybeans don't *scream,* pumpkin," she murmured, pressing the flat of the knife against the quivering muscle. A wet, gurgling wheeze escaped the driver's lips—more reflex than consciousness—making the girl dissolve into giggles.

She clambered onto the console, her overall straps slipping off one shoulder as she leaned in. "Can I *poke* it?" Her finger hovered millimeters from the glistening tissue, quivering with anticipation.

"With *this*," the mother corrected, producing a plastic cocktail sword from her tote—the kind that comes speared through maraschino cherries. The girl seized it with a noise halfway between a squeal and a snarl, driving it into the ventricle with enough force to send a ruby arc splattering across the speedometer.

The driver's legs spasmed violently, his polished shoe slamming against the brake pedal hard enough to rock the entire taxi. The girl shrieked with delight, clinging to the steering wheel as the corpse's convulsions made the vehicle shudder like a dying animal. "Mommy! He's *dancing* again!" She mimicked the jerking motions, her pigtails flailing.

The driver's foot slipped off the brake with a wet squeak, his polished shoe now dangling at an unnatural angle. The girl cocked her head, studying the way his sock had ridden down to reveal a pale strip of ankle. "Mommy," she whispered, poking the exposed skin with her cocktail sword, "his bones are *shiny* under here."

The mother leaned over, using the switchblade to slit the sock from heel to toe like unwrapping a candy bar. The girl gasped as tendons glistened in the dashboard light. "Like *licorice* strings!" She wound one around her finger until it snapped with a sound like a rubber band breaking.

A wet gurgle escaped the driver's lips—his last protest, perhaps, or just the sound of his lungs collapsing under the weight of his own blood. The mother sighed, plucking the cocktail sword from the girl's grip. "Always save the best bites for last," she murmured, slicing a neat square of pectoral muscle and spearing it on the plastic tip. The girl accepted it with ceremonial gravity, nibbling the edges like a child with pizza crusts.

Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of distant rain and something earthier—something that made the girl's nose wrinkle. "Mommy," she stage-whispered, pointing at the driver's gaping abdomen, "his *tummy* smells like Grandpa's garden."

The mother inhaled deeply through her nose, her lips curling into a nostalgic smile. "Mm. *Compost*," she murmured, slicing through the diaphragm with the practiced ease of someone deboning a chicken. The girl leaned in, her pigtails brushing the driver's ribcage as she sniffed experimentally. "Like when we buried the mailman under the azaleas?"

"Exactly, button." The mother's blade scraped against bone as she pried loose a section of liver, its surface mottled with fatty deposits. She held it up to the dome light, turning it like a sommelier inspecting a fine wine. "Only *this* one didn't smoke two packs a day." The girl nodded solemnly, accepting the offered organ with both hands. It squelched between her fingers, dripping onto her overalls with a sound like wet laundry hitting concrete.

Outside, a distant thunderclap sent vibrations through the taxi's frame. The girl startled, her grip tightening around the liver until dark blood oozed between her knuckles. "Mommy," she whispered, eyes darting to the rain-streaked windows, "what if *lightning* hits him?" She said it with the same hushed awe other children reserved for birthday cake candles.

The mother paused mid-incision, considering. The knife's tip tapped against the driver's sternum—*click-click-click*—like a metronome keeping time with the gathering storm. "Then we'll have *barbecue*," she decided, using the blade to flip open the glove compartment. The girl shrieked with glee as a cascade of napkins and insurance papers fluttered out. The mother caught one midair—a coupon for a car wash, now speckled with arterial spray—and tucked it into the girl's overall pocket. "For *dessert*," she whispered, winking.

The liver slipped from the girl's fingers with a wet slap onto the dashboard, sending a constellation of blood droplets across the speedometer. She giggled, tracing the splatter pattern with her pinkie. "Look, Mommy—*consternation.*"

"Constellation, honeybee," the mother corrected, using the switchblade to flip the organ like a pancake. The underside was a mottled purple, veined with channels of coagulating blood. She sliced a neat strip—"Always against the grain"—and held it up. The girl accepted it between her teeth like communion wafer, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy at the metallic burst.

Thunder growled again, closer now. Rain began pattering against the roof in erratic bursts, each drop hissing as it hit the still-warm hood. The girl pressed her nose to the fogging window, her breath creating a temporary clearing in the condensation. "Mommy," she whispered, tapping the glass, "his *eyes* opened."

The mother didn't glance up from her butchering. "Reflexes, pumpkin. Like when Mrs. Peabody's fingers kept twitching in the freezer." She severed a tendon with a decisive *snip*, holding up the glistening strand. "See? Still *springy.*"

The driver's left eyelid had indeed crept halfway up, revealing a sliver of milky iris that stared at nothing with glassy indifference. The girl leaned closer, her nose almost touching the cornea. "Mommy," she breathed, "can I *keep* them?" Her fingers twitched toward his face like a magpie spotting silver.

"After they *set*," the mother murmured, slicing through the optic nerve with a twist of her wrist. The eyeball came free with a wet *plop* into her waiting palm. She held it up to the flickering dome light, turning it this way and that. "See the little roads?" She traced the crimson veins with her knife tip. "That's how the scared runs inside."

The girl nodded solemnly, cupping her hands beneath the dripping orb. A thin strand of vitreous humor stretched between socket and globe before snapping onto her overalls. "Oopsie," she giggled, licking the strand from her wrist like melted cheese.

Rain drummed harder now, turning the windshield into a liquid mosaic of blood and water. The mother used the distraction to work quickly—eviscerating with the precision of a taxidermist, separating what would keep from what wouldn't. The girl watched, enthralled, as her mother peeled back the driver's scalp with a sound like Velcro parting. "Like *bananas*!" she shrieked, clapping her hands.

The mother flicked the switchblade closed with a practiced wrist movement—*snick*—just as lightning flashed outside, illuminating the taxi's interior like a strobe. In that split-second burst of light, the driver's skull gleamed like wet porcelain under her skilled fingers. The girl squealed, clapping her hands as her mother peeled the scalp away in one smooth motion, revealing the pale curve of bone beneath. "Mommy, it's *so shiny!*" she gasped, reaching out to tap it with a sticky fingernail. The sound it made was oddly hollow, like knocking on a melon at the grocery store.

The mother chuckled, using the knife's tip to trace a lazy circle on the exposed parietal bone. "You want to see something *really* shiny?" she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The girl nodded so hard her pigtails slapped her cheeks. With a quick, precise motion, the mother drove the blade into the skull just above the ear—*crack*—the sound like an egg hitting the side of a mixing bowl. The girl's breath hitched as her mother worked the knife in small, careful circles, widening the hole until moonlight glinted off the dura mater beneath.

Outside, the storm intensified, rain hammering the roof in erratic bursts that almost drowned out the wet *schlick* of the mother's knife as she pried up a section of bone. The girl clutched the edge of the seat, her overalls streaked with gore, her eyes wide and unblinking. The mother paused, tilting the skull fragment to catch the light. "See?" she whispered, pointing to the glistening folds now exposed. "That's where all his *thoughts* lived." The girl reached out, her tiny fingers trembling as they brushed the surface—warm, pulsing slightly under her touch. She yanked her hand back with a giggle. "It *tickles!*"

The mother smiled, her teeth glinting in another lightning flash. She handed the girl the skull fragment like a prize won at a carnival. "Here. A *thinking cap* for school tomorrow." The girl clutched it to her chest, beaming as rivulets of cerebrospinal fluid dripped down her sunflower dress.

The girl pressed the skull fragment to her forehead like a crown, giggling as pink-tinged fluid trickled down her temples. "Do I look *smart*, Mommy?" She stuck out her tongue to catch a droplet, her face scrunching at the taste. "Ew! Like pennies and *homework*!"

The mother chuckled, using the switchblade to scrape a particularly stubborn bit of dura mater from the driver's frontal lobe. "Smarter than *him*, at least," she murmured, flicking the gray matter into the girl's waiting palms. The child squealed as it squelched between her fingers, kneading it like Play-Doh before sculpting a lopsided heart. "For *show-and-tell*!" she announced, wedging it carefully into her overall pocket beside the car wash coupon.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the taxi's interior in stark monochrome—for one frozen instant, the girl's gore-streaked face looked decades older, her smile a perfect mirror of her mother's razorblade grin. Then darkness swallowed them once more, broken only by the rhythmic *drip-drip-drip* of fluids pooling in the footwell.

The mother wiped her hands on the driver's shirtfront, leaving streaks like rusted fingerprints. "Time to *wrap up*, pumpkin." She reached into her tote with blood-slick fingers, producing a roll of industrial garbage bags with a sound like a rattlesnake's warning. The girl clapped in recognition, bouncing on the vinyl seat until her pigtails slapped against her sticky cheeks.

The girl's fingers curled around the garbage bag's edge, her tongue poking out as she struggled to unroll it with hands slippery from cerebrospinal fluid. The plastic crackled like distant gunfire. "Like a *body sleeping bag*," she whispered, spreading the bag across the driver's lap with ceremonial gravity.

The mother's knife flashed once more—*snick*—severing the carotid with a finality that made the girl shiver with delight. Blood gurgled into the bag's folds, pooling in the plastic valleys. "Hold it *wide*," the mother instructed, guiding the girl's hands to the opening as she maneuvered the driver's torso forward with her knee. His head lolled grotesquely, the remaining eye staring at the girl with dull accusation. She blew a raspberry at it.

With practiced efficiency, the mother rolled the body into the bag, the plastic sucking tight against damp skin as she twisted the excess like a candy wrapper. The girl hugged the middle, her arms barely spanning the driver's girth, squeezing until a wet *pop* sounded from within. "Oops," she giggled, wiping her hands on her dress.

The mother reached into her tote and produced a second bag—this one patterned with cheerful yellow ducks. The girl gasped, clutching it to her chest. "For the *special parts*?" Her whisper was reverent.

The mother winked, using the switchblade to flick the driver's severed tongue into the duck-patterned bag with a wet *plop*. "Special parts deserve special wrapping," she murmured, catching a stray droplet before it could stain the plastic. The girl clapped her hands—*splat-splat*—sending flecks of gray matter arcing through the air like gruesome confetti.

Outside, the storm reached its crescendo—lightning forking across the sky in dendritic patterns that momentarily lit the taxi's interior like an overexposed photograph. In that frozen instant, the mother's reflection grinned back at her from the rain-streaked window, her lips smeared crimson where she'd absentmindedly licked them clean. The girl noticed and mimicked the gesture, her tiny pink tongue darting out to catch the last metallic traces from her cheeks.

"Mommy," the girl whispered suddenly, pressing her palm flat against the driver's garbage-bagged thigh. She flexed her fingers, watching the plastic cling to his cooling flesh. "Can we make him *wave* goodbye?" She demonstrated with an exaggerated flap of her own arm, her sunflower dress crinkling at the movement.

The mother chuckled, reaching into her tote with the serene efficiency of a flight attendant demonstrating safety procedures. Her hand emerged clutching a spool of fishing line—the kind used for deep-sea catches. "*Every* proper farewell needs strings, button," she murmured, slicing off a length with her teeth. The girl watched, rapt, as her mother threaded it through the bag's twisted neck, then looped it around the driver's limp wrist.

The fishing line pulled taut with a sound like a spiderweb snapping. The driver's hand jerked upright in a macabre marionette wave, fingers splaying stiffly before drooping again. The girl shrieked with laughter, clambering onto the corpse's lap to make it wave faster—*flap-flap-flap*—until the plastic bag split along the seam with a sound like ripping wet cardboard.

"Oopsie," she whispered, staring at the crescent of pallid thigh now exposed. A single drop of condensation slid down the plastic, hanging suspended for a heartbeat before plopping onto the girl's nose. She crossed her eyes watching it, tongue darting out to catch the metallic droplet. "Tastes like *car*," she announced, wrinkling her nose.

The mother hushed her gently, peeling back the torn plastic with the delicacy of someone unwrapping heirloom china. The driver's skin had taken on the waxy sheen of refrigerated meat, his leg hairs stiff with drying blood. She traced the blade along his inner thigh—*schick*—exposing the femoral artery with a surgeon's precision. The girl leaned in so close her breath fogged the steel.

"Watch the *fountain*," the mother murmured, pressing the knife just so.

The blade sank in with a wet *pop*, and the girl squealed as a geyser of blood arced straight up—higher than the dome light—before raining down in warm droplets across their faces. She stuck out her tongue to catch them, giggling when one splashed directly into her left eye, turning her lashes sticky and crimson. "It tickles!" she shrieked, rubbing at it with a fist smeared in brain matter.

The mother caught the next spurt in the duck-patterned bag like a grotesque game of hacky sack. The plastic ballooned grotesquely, the cheerful yellow ducks swelling into bloated caricatures as they bobbed in the sanguine tide. The girl poked the bag, fascinated by how the blood sloshed against her fingers through the thin barrier. "Like *juice pouches*," she whispered, then mimed taking a sip, complete with exaggerated slurping noises.

Lightning flashed again, casting the taxi’s interior in stark relief—for one frozen instant, the driver’s plastic-shrouded corpse appeared to sit upright, his fishing-line wrist raised in a jaunty wave. The girl gasped, then dissolved into breathless giggles when the illusion shattered with the next raindrop against the roof. "He *winked* at me!" she insisted, poking the bag where his eye would be. Something squished wetly beneath her finger.

The mother reached into her tote—*rustle-rustle*—and produced a thermos decorated with smiling strawberries. The girl’s eyes lit up. "Special occasion?" she asked, already cupping her hands expectantly.

The mother unscrewed the thermos lid with a theatrical flourish, releasing a coppery scent that made the girl’s nostrils flare. "Anniversary special," she murmured, tilting the container so the thick liquid inside sloshed against the sides. The girl bounced on her knees, her overall straps slipping off her shoulders as she leaned in. "Whose?" she breathed, licking her lips.

"Mr. Henderson’s." The mother’s smile was all teeth as she poured a careful measure into the thermos’s cup. The blood had congealed slightly at the edges, giving it a gelatinous sheen. "Two years ago today." She handed the cup to the girl, who accepted it with both hands like communion wine.

The first sip made the girl’s toes curl. "Tastes like... like..." She swirled it on her tongue, searching for the right comparison.

"Like pennies and peppermint," the mother supplied, using the switchblade to stir the thermos’s contents. A sliver of something pale and fibrous swirled to the surface before disappearing again.

The girl giggled into the thermos, her laughter sending tiny ripples across the surface of Mr. Henderson’s blood. "Peppermint!" she repeated, delighted, then took another gulp. A drop escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a crimson line down her chin. The mother caught it with her thumb, swiping it across the girl’s cheek like war paint.

Outside, the storm’s fury began to wane, the rain softening to a hushed patter against the taxi’s roof. The mother checked her watch—the gold one that had once ticked on the wrist of a woman now fertilizing soybeans—and sighed. "Time to *tidy up*, button." She snapped her fingers twice, the sound sharp as a bone breaking.

The girl scrambled to obey, clutching the duck-patterned bag to her chest as she knelt beside the driver’s wrapped remains. Her small fingers worked quickly, twisting the excess plastic into a knot with the efficiency of a child used to cleaning up after messy playdates. The bag gurgled as she tightened it, a final protest from its contents.

The mother reached into her tote and produced a handful of zip ties—the kind used for bundling cables. The girl’s eyes lit up. "Can I *decorate* them?" she asked, already digging in her pocket for the broken crayon.

The mother laughed—a sound like ice cracking—and handed the girl a neon pink zip tie. "One *accessory* per customer, pumpkin."

The girl seized it with glee, looping it around the driver's bagged wrist like a friendship bracelet. She tugged it tight with her teeth, the plastic biting into dead flesh with a squeak. "Now he's *fancy*," she announced, sitting back to admire her handiwork. The zip tie glowed garishly against the garbage bag's black sheen, a single pop of color in the otherwise monochrome tableau.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, pattering against the taxi's roof like distant applause. The mother checked her watch again—the second hand ticked steadily over a speck of dried blood near the six. "Five minutes to *laundry time*," she murmured, flicking the switchblade open to scrape a stubborn fleck of brain matter from the dashboard.

The girl gasped suddenly, clutching the mother's sleeve with sticky fingers. "Mommy! We forgot the *most important part!*" She scrambled over the console, her sunflower dress snagging on the gearshift, and plunged both hands into the duck-patterned bag. After a moment of furious rummaging, she emerged triumphant, clutching the driver's severed tongue between thumb and forefinger. It lolled grotesquely, the tip still indented from where it had pressed against his teeth in life.

The girl pinched the tongue's tip between her fingers, letting it swing like a fleshy pendulum. "Mommy," she whispered, eyes alight with mischief, "can we *lick* it back to life?" She darted her own tongue out in demonstration, leaving a shiny streak across her chin.

The mother's switchblade paused mid-scrape. "Tongues don't work like *lizard tails*, button." She plucked the muscle from the girl's grip and held it up to the taxi's dome light, examining the taste buds with scientific detachment. "But..." Her grin widened as she produced a sewing kit from her tote—the kind with cheerful strawberry-shaped pins. "We could *mail* it to someone."

The girl shrieked with delight, clapping her hands until brain matter flecked the ceiling. "To *Principal Smithers*!" She bounced on the vinyl seat, her pigtails slapping against coagulating blood. "In a *valentine!*"

The mother chuckled, threading a needle with surgical silk dyed pink to match the girl's zip tie bracelet. She pierced the tongue's root with practiced ease, stitching it into a lopsided heart shape. The girl watched, enthralled, as her mother's fingers worked—each pull of the thread making the muscle twitch grotesquely.

The girl clapped her sticky hands as her mother tied off the final stitch with a flourish, holding up the tongue-valentine by its trailing thread. Raindrops tapped against the windshield like impatient fingers as she dangled it before the girl’s eager eyes. "Now for the *special seasoning*," the mother murmured, reaching into her tote for the spice jar labeled *PARSLEY*. The girl inhaled sharply when her mother unscrewed the lid—inside, nestled among the dried herbs, was a single human fingernail, polished to a pearly sheen.

"Principal Smithers *hates* paprika," the girl whispered knowingly as her mother dusted the tongue with a pinch of the contents. The spice mingled with the metallic scent of blood, creating a perfume that made the girl’s nostrils flare. She plucked the valentine from her mother’s grip and pressed it to her own tongue in a mock kiss, leaving a greenish smear across her lips.

Lightning flickered—once, twice—casting their shadows against the taxi’s stained upholstery in grotesque caricatures. The mother snapped the spice jar shut with a click that echoed like a bone knuckle cracking. "Time to *wrap up*," she said, eyeing the digital clock on the dashboard. Its numbers glowed a sickly green, the colon blinking between digits like a metronome counting down.

The girl nodded solemnly, tucking the valentine into her overall pocket beside the skull fragment and car wash coupon. She wiped her hands on the driver’s discarded shirt before reaching for the door handle—then paused, her head cocked. "Mommy," she breathed, pressing her ear against the plastic-wrapped corpse. "*He’s singing!*"

The mother paused mid-motion, her switchblade hovering above the thermos as the girl pressed her ear tighter to the garbage bag. A slow smirk curled her lips when the plastic emitted a faint, wet gurgle—more escaping gas than serenade. "*Dinner and a show,*" she murmured, flicking the blade shut with a *snick* that made the girl jump.

4

The girl scrambled onto the driver's lap, her knees sinking into the softening flesh beneath the plastic as she cupped both hands around the bulge where his stomach would be. "*Again!*" she demanded, shaking the bag until another bubbling belch answered. Her laughter pealed through the taxi, high and bright as a playground swing's chains rattling.

The mother's fingers dipped into her tote, emerging with a slim glass vial stoppered with cork. The girl's breath hitched when she saw the murky fluid inside—something that swirled with lazy, iridescent streaks. "*Special sauce for special guests,*" the mother whispered, uncorking it with her teeth. The scent hit instantly—cloying and chemical, like licorice left to rot in rubbing alcohol.

The girl clapped her hands over her nose. "*Mommy it smells like—*"

"Like *Principal Smithers' breath*," the mother finished, tipping the vial's contents onto the tongue-valentine with the precision of a pastry chef decorating a cake. The liquid hissed where it touched the stitched flesh, sending up curls of acrid smoke that made the girl sneeze violently—three times in rapid succession, spraying blood-flecked mucus across the dashboard.

The mother caught the third sneeze in her palm like a blessing, then wiped her hand casually down the driver's garbage-bagged thigh. "Gesundheit," she murmured, watching the chemical reaction eat through the tongue's surface, leaving behind pockmarks that resembled rotten strawberries. The girl pressed close, her nose wrinkling as she inhaled the fumes with morbid fascination.

Outside, the storm had quieted to intermittent drips from the taxi's sagging gutters. The mother glanced at her watch—the one that kept perfect time over soybean roots—and nudged the girl toward the door. "Laundry's waiting, button." She pocketed the empty vial with a practiced flick of her wrist, the glass clicking against Mr. Henderson's thermos.

The girl hesitated, her fingers worrying the frayed edge of her sunflower dress where brain matter had crusted into stiff peaks. "Mommy," she whispered, pointing to the driver's plastic-wrapped head, "what if he *misses us*?"

The mother paused with one hand on the door handle, rainwater streaking down her wrist in pinkish rivulets. She turned back toward the lumpy black bag in the passenger seat and tilted her head—listening, perhaps, for the faintest gurgle of farewell. When none came, she reached into her tote and produced a single plastic googly eye, its adhesive backing still pristine. "Then we'll leave him *company*," she murmured, peeling the backing free with her teeth before pressing it firmly onto the garbage bag where the driver's forehead would be. The eye jiggled grotesquely as she adjusted it, its unblinking stare fixed eternally on the taxi's ceiling.

The girl shrieked with delight, scrambling back across the console to press her nose against the plastic-wrapped face. "Hi, *Mr. Eyeball*!" she cooed, tapping the googly eye with a sticky fingertip. It wobbled violently, as if in emphatic agreement. The mother chuckled, using the switchblade to carve a lopsided smile beneath it—the plastic split with a sound like celery snapping, revealing a crescent of yellowed teeth beneath.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the taxi's antenna onto the asphalt, each drop exploding into tiny coronas of blood and water. The mother checked her watch again—the second hand ticked over a speck of brain matter near the twelve—then nudged the girl toward the door. "Time to *meet the spin cycle*, pumpkin," she murmured, hefting the duck-patterned bag onto her shoulder with the ease of a commuter carrying groceries.

The girl followed, skipping through puddles that shimmered with rainbow gasoline hues. Halfway across the lot, she paused suddenly, digging in her overall pocket until her fingers closed around the tongue-valentine. With a conspiratorial glance at her mother, she darted back to the taxi and pressed the stitched muscle against the driver's plastic lips like a final kiss. "So he *doesn't get lonely*," she explained solemnly, patting the bag's distended belly before sprinting back, her sunflower dress flapping behind her like a war banner.

The laundromat’s fluorescent lights buzzed like angry flies as the girl pressed her nose against the glass door, her breath fogging the decal of a smiling cartoon washing machine. Inside, a single elderly woman folded towels with methodical precision, her back turned to the dripping pair. The mother shifted the duck-patterned bag higher on her shoulder, its contents sloshing wetly.

"Remember our *game*?" she murmured, tapping the girl’s shoulder three times—their signal. The child nodded, immediately going limp like a discarded doll, her arms flopping exaggeratedly as she sagged against her mother’s leg. The mother sighed theatrically, raising her voice just enough to carry. "*Oh dear*, seems my daughter’s *sleepwalking* again!"

The elderly woman turned, her gaze flickering from the girl’s deliberately unfocused eyes to the suspicious dark stains on their clothes. The mother hefted the bag with a weary smile. "*Potty training accidents*," she explained, shaking her head in mock embarrassment. The woman’s nostrils flared instinctively—years of nursing home shifts had honed her nose for bodily fluids—but she forced a polite nod and returned to her folding.

The girl "woke" with a dramatic gasp as they reached the far machines, immediately plunging both hands into the bag to retrieve the tongue-valentine. Its stitches had loosened during the walk, giving it a grotesquely lolling appearance. "*Oopsie*," she whispered, stuffing it back as her mother fed quarters into the machine marked *EXTRA LARGE LOADS*.

The washing machine chugged to life with a metallic groan, its circular window swirling with crimson-tinted water. The girl pressed her palms against the vibrating metal, giggling as the tongue-valentine slapped rhythmically against the glass like a fish in a too-small tank. "Mommy," she stage-whispered, pointing to the floating googly eye that had detached from the bag, "it's *winking* at me!"

The mother hummed absently, scrubbing her forearms with a stolen motel soap that smelled like artificial lemons and something earthier beneath. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing a latticework of thin white scars that formed an intricate map only the girl knew how to read. "Twenty-nine minutes," she murmured, checking her watch—the gold one that kept perfect time in direct proportion to how many bodies it had outlived.

The laundromat's fluorescent lights flickered ominously as the elderly woman finished folding her towels into precise military corners. She paused near the door, her gaze lingering on the sunflower dress spinning lazily in the next machine—the one dotted with suspicious dark flecks that definitely weren't mud. The girl waved cheerfully with fingers still crusted under the nails. The woman hurried out into the rain without her quarter change.

"*Rude*," the mother observed, wringing out the driver's socks over an industrial sink. The water ran pink for exactly eleven seconds before clearing. She timed it.