He came home worried about the broth smell misting through the house. He went straight for the cage to find it empty. Did she do it? Did she cook the rabbit?

He sat at the table, disheartened, and when she brought a bowl of soup—just water and meat chunk—he felt an internal brokenness, a crack in that childish hopefulness that had helped him survive poverty for so many years.

The rabbit, the little innocent, sacrificed like everything else.

But when the rabbit hopped out from under the table, he sighed, relieved, and pet it gently.

“Eat,” said his wife, happily. She gestured to his bowl, but where her hand should be was a stump wrapped in bandages.

“Eat,” said his wife. “Eat.”