When they walk out to the backyard, a tall fence gives the area an aura of seclusion.  Kevin sets the drinks onto a picnic table, next to a wooden cutting board with two thick slabs of uncooked meat on it, a thin river of blood trailing across the board and onto the grass.  A hatchet-like cleaver is stuck erect between them.  A sweet odor permeates from the smoking barbecue.

“Those steaks smell good,” Kevin says, grabbing a beer.  He hands it to Henry, and takes one for himself.  “If you’re a chef, Rose’s Kitchen is in need of once since her last chef won a hundred grand from the lottery and moved to Florida.  She’s got a punk working for her now, but she still has to do double-duty since he’s not that good.  I could talk to her for you and put in a good word.”

“Thanks, that would be great,” Henry says, retrieving a metal spatula.  “I do a lot of business online, like selling stuff on eBay and such.  I make a decent living, but honest to Pete the costs are so high down in the Cities, I had to move.  How long have you been up here?”