Me and Burt had math class together, walkin’ out side by side after Ms. Dietrich dismissed us (given that the bell couldn’t). I was sleepin’ at Burt’s because we had a soccer game early the next day so it just made sense to sleep at Burt’s. I was full, havin’ had a meat stick and a hard-boiled egg for lunch, but Burt hadn’t eaten all day. We headed to his house for a bit, our usual route home, but Alina Stabilo was in front of us wearin’ those shorts she always wears on Fridays so we turned left when we shoulda turned right because Alina lived in the south side of the city. Burt and I lived in the north side, known for its mothers of soccer-playin’ kids and cars with roofs that went down into the trunk. I used to wonder if you weren’t able to put anythin’ in your trunk when your roof went down into it, but I don’t anymore; I never checked and never asked anyone with one of those sorts of cars, I just don’t wonder about it anymore. Anyway Alina wound up goin’ to her house which Burt and I expected, only half hopin’ she’d turn around and see two fourth graders followin’ her, so flattered by our stalkin’ that she’d show us her bra or what it was under those shorts she wore on Friday that reminded everyone she wasn’t a student but a girl. After Alina walked into her house Burt and I started makin’ our way to his house. We were by that point well into the south side of town. The south side of town was also known for cars without roofs. Cars without tires or seats on the insides. Cars sittin’ in the front lawns of people that didn’t matter then and especially not now. I kept checkin’ behind us as we walked, hearin’ my daddy sayin’ how the differences in these two sides of town were due to simple gravity.

“Shit rolls downhill and we have the high ground.”

As Burt and I crossed this creek to point ourselves towards Hasse Street, I was tryin’ to remember that story I’d heard a year or so ago from Gavin Evering, that story about the girl who’d been murdered and raped in that order. Was that around here? Burt claimed he knew a shortcut to Hasse Street, but I knew he just meant cuttin’ through the square lot of woods that sat in the dead center of our town, a no-man’s-land between the north and south sides. I’d by then moved on from thinkin’ about Gavin Evering’s story to thinkin’ about Alina Stablilo and her Friday shorts, so I sort’ve agreed to the shortcut without thinkin’. Not that I thought it was a bad idea, I just didn’t really consciously agree.

“Through here.”

The forest was tightly packed together, as if all the trees in the town knew these three or so acres of land were the only place they were safe. I was picturin’ a mass-migration of trees to this Jerusalem of timber when Burt saw it.

“Fuck is that.”

It was a dead cow was what the fuck it was. It was a bloated — except for the stomach, which was sinkin’ into itself — greyin’, smelly cow with lacerations all over its body where animals had picked at it before gettin’ sick. Obviously I wasn’t expectin’ to see a dead cow in the middle of a forest, which was in turn in the middle of a town in which I’d seen approximately zero cows in my life; but I wasn’t shocked in the way Burt was. Burt started circlin’ the thing, tentatively, as if at any moment it would reach a hoof out and grab him by the shirt, draggin’ him down into somethin’ we were a long way off understandin’ —  let alone bein’ afraid of. Like I said I wasn’t expectin’ a cow here, but it made sense. In some way I was tryin’ to work out while Burt circled the cow like a vulture it made sense. Did the cow know somethin’ about this spot the way the trees did? 

“Gimme that stick.”

I handed Burt the stick he was pointin’ at and he poked the cow in the eye. I blinked for the cow as the dirt-encrusted piece of wood pressed into the soft tissue, then dug deeper in. The tip of the stick burrowed itself into the eye and I felt it but the cow just laid there and took it. It’s tongue was out. Burt was fascinated, and I was terrified for an instant because I realized I was hard but then remembered I’d just been thinkin’ about Alina Stabilo and her Friday shorts so there was nothin’ to be terrified about. My eye stopped hurtin’ as Burt bore down into the cow’s skull with his stick. I thought about how I hadn’t moved since Burt had pointed out the cow. My feet were mid-walk, one slightly behind and one slightly ahead; it wasn’t comfortable just standin’ this way. I felt like an Olympic runner at their mark, poised to explode into action — ready, set….

“Piece a shit.”

I’m not sure if that’s what Burt said. I’m not sure who he was talkin’ to. I think I only imagined a poppin’ sound as the stick tore into the eye finally and some chunky liquid started slidin’ out of the cow’s eye socket. I almost laughed, imaginin’ the cow as some big fat lady cryin’ butter. What a horrible thought. Burt pulled out the stick and I thought we’d leave then but he rounded the cow, crouchin’ at its gut. He poked the cow’s stomach and it gave in easily, like heavy tarp with nothin’ behind it, bein’ poked with a stick that had eye on one end and a fourth grader on the other. I finally moved, walkin’ to where Burt had been standin’ as he’d poked the eye. I looked at the good eye, then the one that was all mushed up, a bland-lookin’ salsa that the cow just sat there and let happen.

“Piece a shit.”

Burt poked the stomach harder and harder. I saw what he was doin’ now, I saw how he’d known what to do right when the cow had come into view. I couldn’t’ve ever done what Burt knew he had to do — I guess some people are just different in that way. Burt knew though, and this time he jammed the stick into one of the cow’s loosely scabbed-over cuts. The stick went farther than Burt had figured it’d go, because he yelped and I looked over and his hand was gone inside the cow. I thought we’d leave then but Burt had yelped out of surprise I guess, not fear and maybe not even disgust. He pulled out his hand, now gloved in the liquid rust of bygone flesh. He had a fever about him, and I thought I could leave and he wouldn’t notice. I stayed. He tore into the thing, extendin’ the laceration to the length of the cow, who still just sat there, lookin’ up at me with its one good eye and cryin’ butter the fat fuck. Burt reached into the cow and took out its stomach. It didn’t smell as bad as I expected. He took out what I think was the heart, but I don’t know much about cows. He pulled out somethin’ that looked like rope and it was long. He ripped open the cut wider and stuck his head inside, pullin’ out everythin’ he saw. He was sweatin’ heavily now and his little fourth-grade fingers were shakin’. I looked up and saw it was goin’ to rain.

“Our game might get cancelled.”

Burt pulled out more and more of the cow, more than I knew was in a cow. He was soaked in blood and shit that was days or weeks old and when he saw there was nothin’ left he smiled.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He was right. When Alina Stabilo was a senior in high school I was a sophomore and I made out with her under the bleachers durin’ a football game. I thought about the cow right in the middle of kissin’ her. Burt and I went swimmin’ in the river after the cow, him to clean up and me to lie on my back in the gentle current, watchin’ the sky get dark.

“Our game’s definitely cancelled.”

Burt and I walked back to his house and his mom made us spaghetti. I almost laughed, imaginin’ Burt’s mom servin’ us hamburgers. What a horrible thought.