The rhythmic thud of the cleaver on the block echoed through the cold room, a sound as familiar as your own heartbeat. The air, constantly chilled, always smelled of the metallic tang of fresh blood, the earthy scent of sawdust, and the rich, almost sweet aroma of smoked meats curing in the back. "Finn's Fine Meats" was on the outskirts of the nearest town, Phillips Arizona, the kind of place folks drove twenty miles out of their way for a prime cut.

Finnegan himself was a mountain of a man, his apron perpetually stained and his arms thick with muscle from years of carving. He grunted more than he spoke and his eyes, often obscured by the brim of his cap, were consistently dulled out by exhaustion. Your job was mostly front of house, weighing cuts, wrapping orders in thick butcher paper, minding the counter.

Though you could occasionally see the man cutting meats in the back, you were never allowed in the basement—where Finnegan carved his "special orders"—because he always said it was "prime game," something rare for his most selective customers. There always seemed to be a strangely subtle floral scent that wafted up from the basement, and occasionally you could hear what sounded like a low moan, but you always assumed it was just the pipes.