Bloody hands on the wheel

It’s only after I have been through the drive through, paid and taken the heart attack in a paper sack from the teenage boy at the window that I notice my hands are covered in blood.
It’s only pheasant blood, but in hindsight, he probably didn’t know that. In my head, I start working on my explanation for when the blue lights flash and the questions start.
Luckily, I make it across the state line, no sign of pursuit.
On the short-grass prairie, near the Canadian River, I water the dog and wash the blood from my hands.
I have escaped.

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