You goes outside onto your stoop to light a cigarette or two.

You throw on a light jacket and pull a hemp beanie down past your ears to prepare for the cold. You walk down the hall of your apartment and out the front door. You close it behind you and ready yourself to watch as the cars drive by, leaning back against the cool concrete of your stoop. Waiting a moment, you take in the thick carbon monoxide. After twenty-five years in Philly, you've acquired a taste for the smell of exhaust. You light your menthol, filling your lungs with its smoke.

Then you spy something on the bottom step, a letter. You abandon your post to get a better look at the improperly delivered mail. There was no address on the outside of the aged envelope only a name, Dr. Jonathon Baker.

With the letter and cigarette in hand, you turn and look up at your tattered apartment building. There's no doctors around here. You then begin to rip open the envelope, feeling only mildly guilty and telling yourself, "There's no way I could find this dude anyway." The neighborhood stray slinks around the corner of the stoop. She stares up into your eyes with mere slits. You exclaim in an exasperated tone, "What? I couldn't find him if I tried. Geez." She leaves you alone and continues on her hunt for a meal. "Damn cat," you mutter under your breath.

You pull a small piece of yellowing paper out of the envelope. A single line of text is scrawled across it, "Criniti's Meat Market -- 1:30."

Looks like somebody's going to miss their appointment. You recognize the shop. It's not far from here.

The End

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