NIGHT SHIFT NOTES

I found him just past the treeline behind the motel, placed carefully where the gravel meets the brush. He wasn’t dumped. He was arranged. His shirt had been opened with surgical precision, his body positioned as if for instruction. There were no signs of struggle. No torn earth. Just two small punctures at the base of his neck and eyes that never got the chance to close. Whoever did this wanted him awake. And wanted us to see it.