“Thanks. Yeah, I’m Kevin, Barb’s husband.”
“Henry Hutchinson. From Fridley. Your wife is in the bathroom. Let’s go out back. The first round of steaks is almost done.”
When they walk out to the backyard, a tall fence gives the area an aura of seclusion. Kevin sets the drinks onto a picnic table, next to a wooden cutting board with two thick slabs of uncooked meat on it, a thin river of blood trailing across the board and onto the grass. A hatchet-like cleaver is stuck erect between them. A sweet odor permeates from the smoking barbecue.