“Yes, my love. I’ll be back home for dinner,” Michel soothes you, phone pressed tightly against his cheek as he works on stuffing black bags with crooked bodies. Tinny music plays from a record player not too far away. “Shh, I’m driving, okay? Our song is playing on the radio, do you hear it?” Your anxious voice calms, and he smiles at the noticeable shift.

“The baby will be fine. Yes, dear.” He murmurs, slotting broken limbs together like puzzle pieces to use as little space as possible. His partner works on scrubbing the smooth tile floors, spitting out foul curses that make Michel’s jaw tick.

“Rest. I’ll be back by the time you’re awake.”

He chuckles when you protest, a soft breathy thing, so tender in such a gruesome setting. “Do you even need to ask? Yes I love you.” He murmurs, kissing the small cellphone affectionately. “Crazy woman. Would I have married you otherwise?”

As you begin to settle, Michel hauls a bag over his shoulder, humming as he walks towards his truck. A wet thump is the loudest thing you can hear besides his labored breathing, and he scrubs his face with his clean hand. “Damn roadkill.” The lie slips past his lips easily.

“Well.” He heaves. “I’ll see you in an hour.”