“This,” he said, “is what you’ve been leaking into the groundwater for twenty years. You didn’t just build me to swallow waste. You built me to swallow the evidence.”
John walked to Bay 7, his old berth. On the wall, someone had scrawled: “I was made for swallowing—John Thompson—GGG-7” in faded marker. He’d written it himself, the night before they’d tried to put him under. A joke that wasn’t funny anymore. I was made for Swallowing- -John Thompson- GGG-...
“I want to finish the meal,” he said. “This,” he said, “is what you’ve been leaking
She frowned. “You want to swallow a bomb? Yourself?” On the wall, someone had scrawled: “I was
John looked past her, through the grimy window, at the moon riding low over the chemical tanks. For the first time, he felt something close to hunger. Not for food. For justice.
And tonight, he intended to swallow the whole damn company whole.
“I was made for swallowing,” he whispered, the words fogging the wire. It wasn’t a boast. It was a specification.