The other pains were gone, he was nothing but a single right ass cheek. He writhed with the vigor of a freshly landed marlin. Then he felt himself lifted like a suitcase again. The two men heaved him up, and by the smell of things, Hammermeister realized he had been cast into the garbage Dumpster before he even landed. His body was greeted by cardboard boxes, nail-embedded two-by-fours, metal cans, offal—the slime, grit, and stink of coffee grinds and cat litter, rib and chicken bones, and cigarette butts.

There was a loud clang as the two men dropped down the metal door. There was the sound of the metal lid reverberating, followed by the squeak of sneakers peeling across the snowy pavement of the back drive, as the thugs made a New Balance getaway.

The pain of the burn was incredible. It gave Hammermeister superhuman strength. In just seconds he was able to wrest his hands free from the tape. In another few seconds he pulled the tape from his face and spit out the sock that was choking him. By the time he slipped out of his bindings and pushed up the lid of the Dumpster, the men were gone; the sleet had turned to snow, and a soft white blanket was laid about him like a kind of Currier and Ives/Edward Hopper Detroit. The Motor City.

Harold hastened to his room. After four tumblers of straight bourbon and a handful of Tylenol #4s, Hammermeister, still trembling, stood before his phone imagining what he would say to the police. When he finally called 911, a dispatcher answered with a disaffected tone and Hammermeister quickly replaced the phone in its cradle, afraid that his call would be traced and an aid car would be sent to his building.

He staggered into the bathroom and looked at the burn. It was hideous, his buttock exuded a watery yellow fluid, yet the letters KKK were crudely apparent. They had somehow taken him to a prearranged spot where the hot iron was cooking. This sort of vicious calculation made him think of gangs. Of gang planning. Somebody really was playing hardball. Not kids. Not janitors. But who else except fucking kids and fucking janitors? Funny that they didn’t steal his wallet or shoot him. Rip-off artists shaking down a random victim in a parking lot would go for the money. Kids and janitors had access to a high school metal shop where branding irons could be made.

Hammermeister went back to the phone to call an ambulance and was once again struck by indecision. It had been a warning. Maybe it would be best not to get the police involved. After all, how would he explain it to Dr. White?