Calvin followed the dirt path, a jump rope coiled loosely in his hand. Mud clung to his long socks in thick crescents. He kicked a small rock down the road, scuffing the black toes of his dress shoes.

  The path pressed close to a wall of scrub and thorn, flanking empty green fields rolling away. Clouds hung low and bright, a flat white that pressed down on the pungent smell of manure and wet wool that lingered.

  Calvin let his thoughts drift until a sharp bleat split the air. He ran around the bend where he found a lamb.

  It lay just off the road, close enough that its wool brushed the weeds. One leg folded wrong beneath it, twisted at the joint and jutting toward the sky. Its white fleece matted with dry mud, stiff and gray at the edges. The lamb’s black wet eyes tracked him as he approached.

  Calvin dropped to his knees. He set a hand on its head and stroked the wool between its ears, feeling the heat beneath. The lamb exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned into his thigh, trusting its weight to him.

  He held its head there for a moment longer.

  Then he eased it down into the dirt.

  He stood.

  Uncoiled the rope.

  Looped it over the lamb’s head, drew it tight around the neck, and pulled strangling the lamb.

  Hooves kicked up dirt. Its body bucked and twisted, tongue slipping free, the bleat collapsing into a wet, choking sound. The rope burned against Calvin’s palms.

  He didn’t flinch.

  His face stayed blank, his gaze fixed somewhere past the struggle, as if watching something else entirely. He held steady until the kicking slowed, until it stopped. Until the body went slack.

  Then someone cleared his throat.

  Calvin stiffened. His hands opened. The rope fell loose and the lamb’s head struck the ground with a soft, final thud.

  Up the road stood a tall man. Black hair hung past his shoulders, unkempt and stringy. He advanced slowly, eyes moving from Calvin to the lamb and back again. His gray shirt and black trousers smeared with old dirt, dark with stains.

  Behind him came the creak of wood and iron. A pale yellow caravan came into view, pulled by a single horse. On the wagon’s bench sat a fat man with a red beard braided into thick cords. His grey shirt and green trousers stained with splotches like the tall man. Sweat shone on his round cheeks as he wiped his head with one hand.

  “You find it?” the fat man said.

  The tall man didn’t look away from the lamb.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Stupid little shit was dead already.”

  Calvin let his shoulders drop, relief loosening them all at once.

  “Damn luck,” the fat man said.

  “We can use the meat for the dogs,” the tall one said. He bent, took the lamb by the legs, and swung it up over his shoulder. Its body hung limp down his back, tongue slack and protruding.

  Calvin exhaled, a soft sound he hadn’t meant to make.

  “Come here, boy.”

  Calvin stiffened and didn’t move.

  “I said come.”

  The tall man waited. His eyes were small and black, like pearl buttons sewn tight into his face. He stood there with the dead weight of the lamb draped across him, watching.

  Calvin stepped forward.

  The man jerked his chin toward the back of the caravan.

  Calvin walked the length of the caravan, stopping at the rear while the tall man swung open the door. It creaked wide. He climbed the short wood steps bolted beneath the door and disappeared inside.

  The smell hit Calvin a second later.

  Sharp and sour, like skunk spray baked into summer heat. Warm and sticky. The smell clung to the air and slid down Calvin’s throat.

  Inside, nearest the door sat a small wooden counter. Hooks hung on a thin wood spool on the space above it where dried plants dangled. Their stems were brittle and leaves curled. Across from it was a narrow wood cabinet. Farther back into the caravan, two narrow beds ran along either wall, covered in patchwork quilts twisted into messy heaps.

  “What’s the hold up?” the fat man shouted from the driver’s seat.

  “Just a minute,” the tall man said, lighting the cigarette with a match, then dropping the match stick into a half drunk beer.

  He lifted the lamb by the ankles above the small counter. With his free hand, he pulled a hook from the wood spool and drove it up through the hind legs. Blood burst against the counter in a sudden spray, then ran freely, dark and thick, dripping onto the floor.

  Calvin watched it spread, noticing the old black stains in the wood where blood had pooled before.

  The man turned to the narrow cabinet at his back. He opened it with blood-slick hands and reached inside, pulling something free. Then he sat down on the edge of the ladder with one leg bent, the other foot planted in the dirt.

  In the man's hand was a small white metal box. He glanced at Calvin, a cigarette burning between his lips. Blood stained the paper as he pinched it free with his fingers and lowered it.

  “Got brothers or sisters?” he asked.

  Calvin nodded.

  The man looked back at the box. “Got a little sister,” he said. “I’d do anything for her.”

  He smoked in silence after that, eyes unfocused, thinking. His face was long and gaunt, his nose sharp and uncomfortably similar to Calvin’s.

  Then he held the box out, pushing it into Calvin's hands.

  It was heavier than the lamb’s head. Wider than his palms. Cold. Perfectly square. Bright white metal on all sides, etched with thin, symmetrical gold lines that crossed and doubled back on themselves, like railroad tracks laid one over another.

  “It’s a game,” the man said. He took a drag on his cigarette, his teeth crusted yellow and black. “You win by what you give. Give nothing, gain nothing…” He let the thought trail off.

  Calvin stared at the box.

  “And to get back, you gotta put the pieces back.”

  Calvin looked closer. There were no missing pieces.

  “And this is the most important part,” the man said, “white gets you back. Black keeps them back.”

  Calvin glanced up at him, confused.

  “Go home, boy.”

  Calvin hesitated, surprised by the dismissal. Then he turned and walked fast down the path, pressing the box tight against his chest as if it might slip away if he didn’t.