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About the Author: Peter Thompson is the author of two traditionally published novels, LIVING PROOF and SUMMER ON EARTH.
The first thing I’ll say is you should never dig a grave in January. It’s damned hard work and in the end, you’ve got mostly nothing to show for it. Then again, if digging a grave is at the top of your to-do list, you might have bigger problems than the weather.
The truth is, I never should’ve opened the door. My Great Dane Clarence had gone missing earlier in the day and I was feeling down. But if I’d ignored the doorbell and stayed inside, Fred would have gone away, eventually, and I wouldn’t have gone out with him for that one beer, that turned into six, and I wouldn’t have winked at that girl with the jealous boyfriend, and we wouldn’t have had to run away when he pulled that gun, and knocking over those garbage cans wouldn’t have seemed like such a good idea, and … well, to make a long-assed story short, we wouldn’t have needed to be out there in the cold burying the fat man. But what’s done is done. I opened the door, and I can’t go back in time and unopen it. So, there we were with a plus sized problem on our hands.
I rubbed my icy digits together. The night was clear and the moon full. The snowy ground gave the clearing a soft glow. The fat man lay on the ground nearby, slowing the steady drift of the snow. The woods were thick enough to hide us from view, but still close enough to hear the traffic from the road.
“Hey, Fred?” I shivered and blew cold breath on my freezing fingers.
“Yeah, Tate?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“We need more beer?”
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