The town of Hubbard was born with a fatal defect, doomed to an early demise. You could see it on the rotting clapboards and the soot-stained bricks, the Pepsi machine, sprouting out of a weed garden. An American flag sticking out like a cowlick, reminding residents of how great it is to be an American.

The interstate was the mallet that pounded the last stake in the heart of the town. Fifteen miles down the road, a Pizza Hut flourishes in a cluster of fast-food restaurants. The residents of Hubbard find their paychecks there, where the road zombies get their fill of grease and sugar.

Katie Malabar works doubles at the Hut. Her expenses are steep from her teenage daughter, Julia. Katie had inherited her house. The place, like an old photo, faded and cracked. The roof sags and leaks. The silver Tyvek insulation bounces the sun like an annoying kid with a mirror. No rent, no mortgage. That’s the reason she stays.
She’d been divorced twice; the first marriage gave her Julia, the second gave her gonorrhea and a fractured jaw. The courts ruled hubby number two was a loser. A restraining order earned her a pair of blackened eyes from that drunken bastard.

Katie’s voice could rip glass when she got on a rant. Today she was tearing to shreds, again, the reputation of her neighbor Gladys.
“ Sits on her fat ass all day, and what…me–working my tail off. I don’t give a god…” she said.
“ Mom, not again!”
“ Don’t smart mouth me, Julia! It’s bustin’ my behind that keeps you in jeans and that pretend tan you bake on at Ultra Violets.”
Julia grabbed her keys and stuffed a few dollars into her pocket.
“Gotta run, Charley’s waitin’.”
“ ‘member what I said Julia…keep Charley’s weasel zipped-up in those tore jeans of his…and get your pretty-self in the door by one.”

Looking in the mirror, her reflection gloated, telling her not in a subtle way that getting older is a bitch. In a daze, she walked to the kitchen thinking about having dinner alone again.

Staring out her bug-smeared window and a harbinger danced into her backyard. The yelping broke her daydream. Her dog, Kilter, ran around in circles trying to bite his own back. A crow with one wing ripped off had its talons firmly planted into the dog’s skin, burrowing his beak into his head with the intensity of a jackhammer.

Katie grabbed a broom and flew out the door. She whacked at the bird but hit Kilter between the eyes. The dog flattened and groaned, the crow hopped off and tried to fly. Kilter lunged, snapping the bird’s neck in his powerful jaws. Katie was horrified, not because she had never experienced the brutality of life, but for the unexpected quickness of it all. One minute she was thinking about her life, the next she was holding a broom in an overgrown yard watching her dog grind the life out of a crow between a couple of old tires.

Shaken, she tossed the broom and went inside. She grabbed a glass of wine and sat at the kitchen table. She’d kill for a cigarette right now. She heard Kilter cry out again, but couldn’t bring herself to look out the window. Damn dog, she thought. Katie bit into a dinner roll and a chunk lodged in her throat. A clog, a full-blown blockage, sealed her windpipe. Katie panicked, dropped her glass. Gasping for air, she staggered out the door, losing one sneaker. She could only make the muffled sounds of someone choking. She flailed her arms and grabbed her throat. Across the yard and over a rusted fence, Gladys was taking out her garbage. She’d heard Katie’s venomous attacks many times before, but thought it best, being a Christian woman and since they were neighbors and all–just to ignore her.