He’s laying in a field. There’s a night sky around him and a circular clearance where they laid his body. He looks older, though only approaching middle age. There’s wrinkles on his skin, particularly common on his face, one that looks ailed and tormented. There are wounds on his arms and legs that look like burns, and he’s missing his shoes. His shirt is lifted up, and etched into his stomach is the only word that can attempt to explain this horrid sight: DISHONORED.

His pockets are empty, his mouth is open. If he could speak, he would call for his sons who are off from the scene. He would call for his ex-wife who lives many counties over and ask her to help him out. He would not call the authorities. His nose itches with the smell of recently cut grass, or it would had he survived. Presently, a dozen bugs have claimed his mortal body as a jungle gym, and they curiously inch their way to his stomach.

His sons, twins, are long gone, and unlike their deceased father, their pockets are full. In one of their pockets is a wallet that does not belong to them, along with a credit card that is not in their name. They are heading south, traveling quickly by car, a car that is not theirs. They will board a plane and they will leave, passports at the ready. And they will never, ever see their father again.

DISHONORED