The imitation wood door shook feebly as Neal’s partner pounded, shouting “Retrieval squad, open up!” Neal’s partner, Morgan, a broadly built man who still had the energy and dark hair of youth, was growing impatient.

“Just a moment,” squeaked Mrs. Harris from the other side of the door.

“Mrs. Harris, you have no right to keep us out here; Your husband did not report for his shift at the factory today, you need to let us in,” Morgan said to the door. Legally, Morgan was right. After the famines of 2024 new laws were passed by a strengthened Congress, among them the Former Citizen Asset Repurposing Act of 2026. This act created many new services and agencies, among them the Former Citizen Retrieval Agency to investigate those under suspicion of violating Article 14 of the act. Personally, Neal hated working for the Retrieval Agency, but then again he had little choice in the matter. Under the new ration system implemented under the act, few other jobs could feed his wife and two sons.

On the other side of the door Neal heard the clicks of sliding bolts and the door, fastened by a chain, opened a fraction. A wrinkled woman with wispy white hair and startlingly blue eyes appeared in the small opening.

“Franklin is just a little under the weather,” the mousy woman said.

Neal could see the fear etched into every wrinkled line on the woman’s face. He could also see the savage pleasure that radiated from Morgan, the kind of pleasure that could only be obtained by having complete dominion over a weaker being. And Neal could feel the pit sinking in his stomach from knowing what came next; he had seen this story unfold before, and he knew how it ended.

Morgan’s stony features broke into a smile that could almost pass for kind. As calmly and politely as you may, Morgan said “Well if that’s the case, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us coming into take a peek.”

The old woman blinked, and then said “Oh no, he could be contagious, I couldn’t ask you to risk your..”

“It would only take a second,” Morgan interrupted.

“I think I hear the kettle,” Mrs. Harris said, moving to close the door. With a smooth movement Morgan’s food slid between the door and the jamb, holding it open. His shoulder positioned forward, Morgan threw his considerable weight against the door; the chain snapped like twine. Mrs. Harris retreated, shocked. Morgan stepped inside, Neal following behind dutifully.

Morgan towered over the old woman when he said, his voice rising “The workers at the factory told us the old man was coughing and sneezing, that he was getting worse everyday. He was flagged so that we’d be called immediately if he failed to report to the factory. Maybe had pneumonia, or a touch of the flu. Those things can be fatal for a man of his age,” Morgan said.

It was true, half of Morgan and Neal’s calls were for elderly who had passed away from common illnesses. Citizens over sixty-five, according to the act, were an unprofitable investment, and as such were not given medical care. For those over sixty-five, there was only one treatment, one retirement plan.

“No, no!” the woman cried, here eyes pleading. Neal looked away. On her wall were dozens of photos, seemingly arranged chronologically, primarily featured a straw haired man with kind eyes and his mousy bride. Gazing at the wall, Neal could watch the boy with kind eyes and the brown haired girl grow up, meet, give birth to children who in turn gave birth to children as their little family grew. Looking at the glassy eyes and frozen smiles in the photographs, Neal wondered how many of those people survived the famine and the purges that followed. Neal turned back to the large man bullying the tiny woman. He had his own family to think about.

“Sit there; don’t move,” Morgan ordered the woman, pointing to a couch that looked older than he was. Morgan then motioned to Neal, and the two up the creaking staircase. At the top of the stairs they reached a small hallway. Checking each door, they found the master bedroom. It was vacant. Morgan and Neal then tore the second floor apart, checking under beds and in closets, anywhere an old man could possibly be concealed. Finding nothing, they returned to the living room.

Mrs. Harris was right where they left there, staring intently at her hands. Neal doubted she had moved an inch. Morgan ordered the old woman to stand up.

“Where is he Mrs. Harris?,” Morgan asked.

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking.

“Need I remind you failure to report a death is a crime? Theft of State property is a serious offense, and we both know where criminals end up,” Morgan threatened. Neal glanced around the room and saw car keys on an end table.

“Morgan,” Neal said, “in the garage.”

Smirking, Morgan ordered the woman to show them to the garage. She was sobbing now. She slowly walked them through the living room, kitchen and to a door.

“Open it,” Morgan ordered.

With a trembling, knotted hand, Mrs. Harris slowly opened the door. Inside the small garage was parked small beige sedan. Keys in his hand, Neal opened the trunk. A shovel lay upon a mound of blankets. Gingerly peeling back one of the blankets, Neal could make out a familiar shape. Peeling off another layer exposed the face of Franklin Harris, his kind eyes permanently shut. If not for how cold Mr. Harris felt, he could’ve been sleeping.

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Mrs. Harris, you are under arrest for failure to report a death, intention to commit and burial, and attempted theft of State property.”

Mrs. Harris was sobbing heavily enough now to be nearly incoherent. All she managed to choke out was “It‘s just not right….this is no way to treat the dead.”

“There’s no way she was going to do this on her own. One of her sons was probably going to come by and help her. Looks like they were about to go when we showed up, son was probably on his way. If he saw our car out front, he’ll be long gone by now,” Neal observed.

“It’s okay,” Morgan said, “I’m sure Mrs. Harris will be so kind as to tell us back the station which son it was. And then she can join her husband at the processing center.”

“He was such a good boy…just like his daddy….what happened to this country?” Mrs. Harris sobbed.

“I’ll take Mr. Harris in his car straight to the processing center. He couldn’t have died more than a few hours ago, he may be salvageable,” Neal said. There was no such thing as inheritance under the Former Citizen Asset Repurposing Act. After the famines, there were so many dead that the problem of deciding what was owned by whom became too difficult. The main idea behind the Former Citizen Asset Repurposing Act was that once you died, everything you had was given to the State to be used as they saw fit.

Morgan led Mrs. Harris away in handcuffs, Neal started the old car and began the drive to the processing center. Driving through the city he passed exhausted workers returning home from twelve hour shifts. The children he passed were too quiet; they played too little and smiled even less.

As soon as Neal reached the center he buzzed for immediate pickup, before decomposition advanced. Processing technicians in their customary stained white scrubs and aprons of their trade came out in a stretcher to cart Mr. Harris away. Depositing the car in the lot designated for seized property, Neal went into the front desk to punch in. On the way he bumped into Henry Liles, one of the head processors.

“Hey Neal, bring anything good for me today?” he asked, pulling down surgical mask.

“Old man who probably died of the flu. His wife will probably be sent here too in a few hours, she tried to sneak him out of the city and bury him,” Neal said.

Liles made a disapproving noise and shook his head. “When will they learn? I mean, what use is there in hiding someone and leaving them to rot when their death could mean something? You know how many people would starve if not for the work we do?”

Neal gave a jerk of the head that could have meant anything.

“I am getting a bit tired of all the old folks coming through here though,” Liles continued, oblivious to Neal’s disinterest. “The quality of the elderly is terrible. Age does terrible things to the body, by the time they come here they’re all tough and stringy. Give me a child any day, they’re still tender, still have life in them. But I will let you in on a little secret though.” Liles looked back and forth secretively, before continuing “The eyes are always tender though.”

Liles smiled, nodding. Neal wished he would go away.

“Doesn’t matter how old those eyes are, how many things they’ve seen. Each one is as juicy and delicious as the last. One of the perks of being a head processor, I guess,” Liles said with a wink.

Neal grunted.

Liles smiled at him and said “I must be going now Neal, I’ll see you around.”

Neal then went to his office to fill out paperwork, trying not to think of what was happening in the processing center a floor beneath him.

How the processing technicians would soon be cutting through Franklin Harris’s clothing, and delicately peeling off his skin to be treated to use as leather.

How what little fat Franklin Harris’s body contained would be scooped out and mixed with lye to make soap.

How Franklin Harris would be drawn in chalk and divided into different cuts.

How Franklin Harris’s odds and ends would be ground to use as sausage filling.

How Franklin Harris’s kind eyes would be cut out and eaten as a snack by a man Neal had just spoken to.

How soon all that would remain of Franklin Harris would be his bones. And how they too would be ground to dust as a plant fertilizers or be used to add calcium to milk.

When the clock finally reached five Neal finished up his paperwork and left the office. He did not see Morgan bring in Mrs. Harris, but it was possible she was being stubborn in giving her up her son. It didn’t matter, she’d end up here eventually. On his way out Neal stopped by Human Resources and picked up his compensation for the week; a modest paycheck, and a large package of meat, enough to feed his family for a week.