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No Razor.

Maybe this is another trick.

Of course it is another trick.

A man in a vendor shirt bumps into me.

“Sorry.”

I flinch hard enough that he gives me a strange look.

“Fine.”

I keep moving.

The crowd thins behind the coffin booth, and the music gets quieter.

The path bends toward the old cement dump road.

My heart starts pounding.

This is too far.

I stop.

No.

I promised Mercy.

I promised myself.

This was supposed to be the booth, not the road.

I turn around.

A motorcycle revs somewhere behind the trees.

My phone buzzes.

Another photo.

Mama’s frame is balanced on the concrete rim of the murder hole now, one corner hanging over empty space.

I make a sound I do not recognize.

Text underneath:

Closer.

“Fuck you.”

I should go back.

I know.

Then voices rise behind me near the booth.

Grave Prowlers.