In two days, Roger turns twenty-seven. But Roger doesn’t want to turn twenty-seven. He’s more afraid of it, of turning twenty-seven, than he’s ever been of anything in his whole life.
Roger has two older brothers; the oldest brother lives out in Texas, and the middle brother, he doesn’t live anywhere, or he lives everywhere, Roger hasn’t quite figured that part out, because his middle brother is dead—died almost two years ago when he was twenty-seven years old, which is why Roger is afraid of turning twenty-seven.
But it’s not what you might think. Roger isn’t afraid of turning twenty-seven because he’s afraid maybe he’ll die at that age too, like his older brother did, like twenty-seven years old is some cursed age to be. Roger’s afraid of many things in his life but being dead isn’t one of them. Roger’s afraid of turning twenty-seven because, once he turns twenty-seven, he will be his older brother’s age. And then, after that, he will be older than his older brother.
So here’s Roger: sitting alone in his bedroom, hands trembling, tears tracking down the crease of his nose, catching on his lower lip and then falling to his cotton white t-shirt. And it’s here that Roger comes up with his plan: in two days, on Thursday, the day of his twenty-seventh birthday, he will sell everything that he owns.
But first he needs lots of things to own, so Roger asks everyone he knows to get him as many things as they can afford, which most people think is a little bit selfish and a little bit greedy, and maybe even a little bit crazy, but Roger doesn’t see it that way because Roger has a plan.
His mom and his dad, being the wonderful parents that they are, get him a nice new pair of work boots and a denim jacket with a fleece lining and a lovely birthday card with two hundred dollars in it. And his aunt gets him a button up Hawaiian shirt. And his grandma gets him a puzzle. And he gets a car battery from a friend, and a desk from another friend, and a pair of sunglasses, and a few books, and a coupon for groceries, and a gift certificate for a luggage company, and he even gets a sweaty baseball cap from the pizza delivery guy who heard it was Roger’s birthday, and, who, not wanting to be the only person to not get Roger something, took off his baseball cap and handed it over to Roger, along with the warm box of pizza Roger had ordered for himself. And then Roger thanked him, the pizza delivery guy, and then Roger tipped him well over the going rate, and then Roger smiled at him and then he closed the door slowly, the pizza delivery guy turning and yelling over the scrawny blade of his shoulder, “Happy birthday, Roger! You’re the best!” as he walked back to his car.
And then Roger took out a slice of pizza and set it on top of the box of pizza and listened as the pizza delivery guy started up his shitty, little pizza delivery car and drove off into the flat, colorful horizon, like some kind of cowboy riding into the sunset in one of those old western movies, where everything is a little bit saturated and a little bit unbelievable, but you watch it anyway because you know, in the end, the good guys win, and that makes your heart feel nice, makes it feel like it’s yours again, like maybe the world is, after all, what you always thought the world should be.
And boy, do Roger’s family and friends really pull through for him on his birthday. He gets all kinds of stuff. More stuff than he could have possibly hoped for.
Oddly enough though, as it turns out, his favorite birthday gift isn’t something someone gives to him, but an injured bird he finds the day before his birthday, while he’s walking through the woods outside of the city where he lives, having driven there to clear his head and to mentally prepare for the new plan he will set into motion the next day, on his birthday his plan to sell everything that he owns.
The bird, when Roger finds it, is hiding in the shade of on an old oak tree, thick gnarled roots climbing out of the dirt, the bird’s shattered wing hanging awkwardly at its side, mangled from an encounter with an angry bobcat or a hungry coyote (the bird is too traumatized from the whole experience to properly recall).
When the bird sees Roger walking towards it, it’s certain that Roger is there to eat it. “I’ve finally met my end,” thinks the bird. So, it chirps at Roger as ferociously as it can, and it ruffles its feathers, and it tries to look as big and as scary as possible (which in the case of a finch is not very big, and not very scary, and not at all ferocious).
But then the bird realizes that its tactics are not working, sees that Roger just keeps coming closer, and gives up the fight. It takes a deep breath, and it stops chirping, and it closes its eyes.
But nothing happens.
And when the bird opens its eyes again, it sees that Roger has knelt down in front of it, has extended his hand out towards the bird, his palm open. It hears Roger cooing at it in a soft voice. “It’s okay, little guy,” it hears Roger saying.
And then the bird, having the ability that all birds and almost all animals have (except for, maybe, humans), to read an animal’s intentions based solely on the color of that animal’s thoughts, decides that Roger isn’t there to eat it or cause it any harm, so, after a moment, it takes a small step closer to Roger, and then another, and then it carefully hops onto Roger’s palm and allows Roger to carry it, tucked against the fleece of Roger’s new denim jacket, back to Roger’s green Volvo.
The finch perches itself up on the dashboard as Roger starts the engine and puts the Volvo into drive. Roger asks what the bird’s name is, and even though the bird doesn’t know any English, only knows his specific dialect of finch (plus a few words of seagull), he gets the gist of Roger’s question, because an introduction is an introduction, no matter the language. And so the bird chirps, “Claude—the name’s Claude.” And even though Roger doesn’t understand Claude’s specific dialect of finch, doesn’t, in fact, speak any of the bird languages, he says back to the bird, “How about I call you Claude? Would that be an okay name?” And maybe it’s coincidence that Roger has guessed the right name, despite the language barrier, or maybe it’s happenstance, or maybe it’s just one of those moments in our lives when coincidence and fate bump heads with each other and we’re sitting stupid in the middle of it, smiling up at the sky, wondering who pulled which strings and why.
And that night, while Roger cooks dinner, Claude with his broken wing hanging at his side, sits on Roger’s shoulder and sings a song that his older brother (also named Claude—finches are notoriously lazy name givers) taught him.
And Roger listens.
And to anyone watching, they would probably look like one of those corny pirate movies where the parrot sits on the pirate’s shoulder and repeats things that it’s heard, even though Roger is no pirate and Claude is no parrot, but a proud finch with a golden chest who scares easily (something Claude would never admit, because what is a bird without courage?), and who also doesn’t very much like cold weather. And so, while Roger finishes up with dinner, steam rising up from the fried veggies that are beginning to burn and crisp and curl black at their edges, he goes to the window above the sink and slides it open, a cool breeze kicking into the room as Claude, being that he doesn’t like cold weather, hops from one end of Roger’s shoulder to the other, escaping the breeze by nuzzling against Roger’s neck.
And the next day, when the time comes, Roger and Claude make breakfast, and then they head down to the street corner below Roger’s apartment complex and they begin to sell all of Roger’s things.
First, they sell the obvious stuff. They sell the TV and the car battery out of the green Volvo, and then they sell the Volvo. And then they sell the boots that Roger’s mom and dad bought for him, and then the denim fleece jacket, and the Hawaiian shirt, and the sweaty hat, and the gift certificate for the luggage company, and then he sells all the old clothes that he’s kept around forever, just in case (just in case what? he doesn’t know), and then he sells his newer clothes too, the clothes he wears regularly, the clothes that fit him well. And then he sells old mementos from his childhood to anyone who’s interested in that kind of thing (not many people, he learns, but some). And then he rummages through the cupboards of his little apartment and he grabs all his groceries and stacks them carefully, like blocks in a game of Tetris, into brown paper bags. And then Roger carries the brown paper bags, three at a time, down to the street corner with the rest of his things. And Claude looks happy, sitting there on Roger’s shoulder. And Roger feels pretty okay, which is an improvement on how he felt not even just two days before.
The afternoon is warm down on the street corner where Roger sells his things.
Claude keeps himself busy watching the steam rise up off the black pavement of the road. And since the sun is out and shining and the air is warm, Claude is happy and so Claude is singing a song he learned when he was still his mother’s chick, hopping back and forth on Roger’s shoulder, pecking playfully at Roger’s right earlobe like it’s a juicy worm, and then even falling asleep for a brief moment, his small black eyes like two drops of oil closing and then opening and then closing again.
The more of Roger’s stuff they sell, the better Roger feels. So he lowers all of his prices (which are already more than reasonable), and he begins taking just about any price someone is willing to pay. His prices are so fair, in fact, that if anyone tries to barter with him, which they only do if they’re extremely cheap and greedy, or if they’re dead broke, he just smiles at them and says, “That’s okay. You can just have it.” And sometimes the people thank him and sometimes they don’t. But Roger doesn’t care about any of that.
He’s not doing any of this for thank you’s. He’s doing it because his older brother is dead—been dead now for almost two years, and because Roger is almost his older brother’s age (or at least almost the age his older brother was when life swept down from wherever life sits, up there in the dark vacuum of space, above the cumulus clouds in February, and yanked the breath out of his older brother’s chest). And Roger hates that—hates that he’s almost twenty-seven, almost his brother’s age; and he hates it because he’s afraid of it—afraid of what it means (what does it mean? Roger doesn’t know exactly, but it means something, and the something that it means is terrible and sad and painful and permanent). And all Roger knows now is that the world is a different place since his brother left, knows only that the rules have changed.
But, back down on the street corner, Roger and Claude are selling everything they own (which in Claude’s case is nothing, and in Roger’s case is less and less), because, when it comes to selling things, Roger has become something of a savant (or at the very least a guy with unbeatable prices).
It takes less than two days for Roger to sell everything that he has ever owned.
And on the second day, at around lunch time, all he has left is the money that he has made from selling his things. And even that (since Roger sold everything at such a dirt cheap price), isn’t very much. So, now he needs to get rid of that too, the small amount of money he made from selling all that he has. So, he walks to the neighborhoods a few blocks over, where the rent drops considerably, and there seems to always be a siren of some kind wailing, and Roger knocks on a door at random, not knowing who will answer it.
A woman comes to the door. Roger thinks she is beautiful.
The woman sees Roger, the white dude in front of her who’s got nothing on but his boxers (Roger decided not to sell those), and who has a small bird on his shoulder, and immediately begins to shut the door.
But Roger quickly pulls out the wad of cash that he was keeping, up until that point, in the elastic waistband of his blue boxers, and he tells her to wait. “This can be yours,” he says, “if you just listen to me.”
So the beautiful woman with the dark skin and the kind, hesitant, eyes, does what Roger asks of her. She stands there in front of him, and she listens.
And Roger tells her about his brother. He tells her about how much he misses him; how much he had loved him before he died, and how much he still loves him now that he’s gone; how he feels so hollow so often. “And do you know what the worst thing about it all is?” he asks.
“No,” she says, leaning against the frame of the door. “What is the worst part? Tell me.”
“The worst thing is knowing that my pain, this unbearable pain I feel all the fucking time—knowing that it pales in comparison to what my parents feel. I can’t understand their pain and I want to, but I’m also terrified of it—of understanding it—so in my own small ways I keep my distance. But I miss him so much, and I know that they miss him even more.”
The woman steps down from her doorway and hugs Roger. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I lost my brother too—when I was just a kid, and I still think about him all the time.”
“Does it ever get better?”
The woman thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe in ways,” she says. “I don’t know if it gets better, you’ll never miss him any less, in fact you’ll probably miss him more and more, but you’ll get better at missing him. You’ll learn to miss him, and you’ll learn to live with it. It will become a part of who you are, a fact of your life.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Roger sighs. “I don’t want it to be a part of who I am. I don’t want to learn to live with it.”
The woman shrugs. “We all make choices,” she says. “Either we stop living, or we keep living. And sometimes it’s that simple.” She gives him a warm smile. “Life is full of choices. For you, this is one of them.”
And then Roger hands her the money, and she thanks him, and she tells him that the money will help her with a few things she needs help with. And then she hugs Roger again, and she kisses him on the cheek.
And then Roger cries a little bit, and the woman lets him, allows him to stand there in front of her, his shoulders shaking, tears running down his cheeks. And then she smiles at him again, “There’s nothing to fear anymore, my love,” she says.
And then Roger walks away, Claude perched on his shoulder, nothing left to their names.
And, since they have nowhere in particular to go, nowhere to be, they walk to a nearby hospital (which just so happens to be the same hospital where his mother gave birth to him and his two older brothers so many years ago).
They walk inside, through the big sliding glass doors, and under the fluorescent lights, and through the busy hallways.
And then, after a little bit of wandering, they find themselves in a room full of doctors and nurses, all of them speaking in hurried, serious tones, using hurried, serious words.
Claude sees that there is a man being operated on, on a table in the middle of the room, and he chirps at Roger, and Roger says back to Claude, “Yeah, I see him too.” And then a nurse runs through the doorway carrying a piece of equipment in her hands that looks both specific and strange, and she brushes past Roger, pushing him to the side. The nurse runs towards the man on the operating table. She yells at one of the surgeons, “I got it!” she says, as she waves the strange piece of equipment.
And then the surgeon yells back, “He’s losing too much blood! We’re losing him! Bring me the clamps! Now! The clamps!”
And then Roger taps the nurse on the shoulder and asks her what’s wrong with the man, and she says that he’s been in a motorcycle accident. “Slid under an eighteen-wheeler,” she says. “Ripped his leg right off.”
Roger looks at the nurse and then at the man on the operating table, and then he grabs the nurse by the arm and says, “I know how to save him.” But the nurse, she’s already onto something else, something more important, a matter of life and death, so she acts like she doesn’t hear him, because maybe she doesn’t, because maybe none of them have time for this mostly naked dude with a bird on his shoulder. He’s probably homeless, they think. Probably halfway crazy, if not all the way there.
So Roger pushes the surgeon out of the way and walks towards the man on the operating table in the middle of the room.
And Claude hops off Roger’s shoulder and stands next to the one-legged, dying man’s head.
And then Roger climbs on top of the table next to the dying man and lies down so their elbows are touching, and then he tells the surgeon to saw off his leg and give it to the man.
Shocked, the surgeons all look at each other. The room falls silent.
“We don’t have much time,” says Roger.
So the surgeons, knowing that Roger is right, knowing that they don’t have much time, do what he asks. They take a large electric saw to Roger’s hip and saw off his leg, the whole thing, and then, seeing as the taking of a leg is always the hardest part, much more difficult and risky than the giving of a leg, they hand the leg over to the dying man and it will be said that the dying man survived. But Roger doesn’t stay to make sure, because Roger has more to do; Roger has people to help and things to sell.
So now, with only one leg, Claude again perched on his shoulder, Roger asks a nurse for a pair of crutches. “Although one will do, I guess,” he says, laughing a kind of sad laugh, nodding down at the nub where his left leg used to be but now is not.
“Of course,” says the nurse. “It’s the least we can do.” So, she rummages through some cupboards until she finds two crutches, and then she hands them over to Roger.
But Roger only needs one crutch, so he tucks one under his armpit, leaning his bodyweight onto it, and then he hands the second crutch back to the nurse, and then he hops like a bird out of the room, back down the hallway, looking for another room with another potential buyer.
And since Roger is in a hospital full of rooms full of people full of dying, it isn’t a hard thing to find—someone who needs what Roger has. Plus, Roger’s confidence as a salesman is now practically through the roof—a dying man’s swagger, that’s what he has. Because now Roger knows, truly knows, that, for the right price, he can sell it all, everything he has left.
He finds his next customer, a middle aged woman with deep set eyes and thin shoulders, lying in a hospital bed with the sheets pulled up to her chest, in a quiet room with no surgeons and only one nurse (who is asleep in the corner of the room, having worked two doubles, back-to-back, in order to afford the piano lessons her daughter so badly wants). And this woman, his next customer, not the nurse who is asleep, but the middle aged woman with the deep set eyes and the thin shoulders, the one lying in the hospital bed, she isn’t dying in the same way as the guy from before, the guy who lost his leg under the eighteen wheeler, no, this woman isn’t dying all at once. She’s dying a little bit at a time. She has diabetes and her diabetes is greatly affecting her blood’s ability to properly circulate throughout her body. She is going to lose, at the very least, her arm. And she is awake.
And Roger knows that the thought of not having her arm is a very terrifying thought for her to have. So Roger hops over to her, and he leans down next to her, and he whispers into her ear his price, and she agrees to it, agrees to the price at which he is willing to sell what he has, and then, since there are no surgeons or doctors in this room, only the nurse who is asleep in the corner, Roger goes into the small room towards the back and rummages through a few drawers until he finds a sharp blade and a few other tools. And then he walks back over to the woman, and he smiles at her, and she mouths, “Thank you,” already knowing what he is going to do, already thankful for it.
And then Roger takes the blade to his shoulder and pushes the blade into his skin, down into the shallow socket where his humerus sits, just below his clavicle, slicing through the muscles and stubborn tendons that hold his arm to his body, and then cutting through the rest of the skin, over the freckles on his shoulder (much like those that his two older brothers also have), carefully pushing the blade into his armpit until his arm is completely free. And then he hands his amputated arm over to the woman, and she holds it tightly to her chest, like it’s a teddy bear and she’s a child stuck in the eye of a terrible nightmare.
And then Roger finds a boy who was born without ears, so Roger slices off both his ears with the same scalpel as before (which he now carries around in the elastic waistband of his blue boxers), and then he hands his ears over to the boy who takes them and whispers into them “Thank you.”
And then Roger finds a war veteran who lost his sight in Syria from the shrapnel off a barrel bomb, so Roger has a nurse pluck out his eyes and give them to the man, and then he finds another man who lost a leg for another reason (Roger is having a hard time keeping track of the people’s many reasons at this point), so he gives up his other leg.
And then he gives away his other arm.
And now, since Roger doesn’t have much left but can still speak, and since he still has Claude on his shoulder, he tells Claude, in his own way, that he wants to give more, says he wants to sell more of what he has to more people.
“But…” stammers the nurse who helped remove some of Roger’s final parts, and who is now pushing Roger in a wheelchair down the hallway, listening to Roger and Claude’s conversation, “But you’re not being paid for any of this,” she says. “How are you selling your things if no one is paying for them?”
But Roger doesn’t have any ears left, so he can’t hear her.
So the nurse pushes him in his wheelchair further down the hallway, to more rooms full of more people without things and without parts, who are all closer to death than Roger was just a few hours earlier.
Roger nods his chin (one of the few things he has left), towards a room with a big open door.
The nurse almost asks Roger how he knows the door is right there, since he has no eyes left to see with, but she knows it would be a useless thing to ask, considering he wouldn’t be able to hear her, and also considering Roger now seems capable of things she doesn’t quite understand. So, instead, she just pushes him inside the room where he’s pointing with his chin.
In this room, which is silent, and dimly lit, and full of tension, there’s a surgeon working carefully behind a curtain. But this time, in this room, they all know exactly who Roger is, because they’ve all heard of Roger and what Roger has done. So the surgeon pulls back the curtain and lets the nurse push Roger right up to the edge of the bed, where together the nurse and the surgeon roll Roger out of his wheelchair, pick him up, and place him onto the steel platform, where there is a man with a disfigured face.
And even though Roger can’t see the man, he knows that the man’s face (who he is now lying next to), is disfigured, because, as they say, when you lose one sense, your other senses heighten, and Roger’s senses have been heightened (although he couldn’t in a million years explain to you which sense it was that he was using to understand that this man behind the curtain with the disfigured face, had a disfigured face. And even Claude, with all his natural bird insight and instinct, couldn’t explain it. But, he knew. And the nurse knew too, and so did the surgeon. And they all knew what to do). So together they take a tiny, impossibly sharp blade to Roger’s face, cutting the skin from below his chin up to his forehead, across his hairline, down to the ears and then back to the chin. And then they peel off his face, and it’s so messy with blood, and so painful that you’d think Roger would be screaming, shouting, squirming, but Roger isn’t doing any of that because all Roger feels is a building warmth (like sunlight on the back of his neck on a cool morning), and because Roger has already decided that this is what he is going to do, and when you’ve decided on something, when you’ve really decided on it, what is pain but another choice?
And now the man with the disfigured face doesn’t have a disfigured face anymore, he has Roger’s face, which most people have said, throughout Roger’s short life, is quite a nice face to have.
And then Roger gives his lungs to an elderly woman who has smoked most of her life but promises Roger that she will never smoke again, and who, now, according to Roger, deserves a second chance at life.
And he gives his kidneys, both of them, to a middle aged man with gray eyes and a shock of black, curly hair, much like what Roger imagines his brother might have looked like some day, if his brother had lived past his twenty-seven years, and if Roger had been able to see this man now, lying in bed.
And then they push faceless Roger, with no arms and no legs and only his broad-shouldered torso, into another room where there is a little girl who desperately needs a heart and who is very, very far down the list of donor recipients. So Roger has the nurse open him up (they don’t need a surgeon anymore, because now the nurse, from watching all that Roger has given, has become quite adept at knowing how to remove Roger’s many parts), and so, after slicing his stomach open, bellybutton to sternum, the nurse reaches up under his ribcage and tugs, and twists, and pulls his heart out of his chest (much like plucking the stem of an apple from its core), and then she hands Roger’s heart to the girl, who smiles at it, like it’s an old toy, that reminds her of an old friend, that reminds her of an old life.
And then the nurse takes Roger outside to the garden right behind the hospital, between the small creek full of cold, snow-melted water, and the tall hospital walls, and she asks a janitor to go get her a shovel, and then together they dig a fairly small hole (Roger isn’t very big anymore, after all), and then the nurse pushes Roger in his wheelchair towards the edge of the hole.
And then Claude hops off of Roger’s shoulder (or what is left of Roger’s shoulder now, because what is a shoulder without an arm, anyway? Still a shoulder I guess, but less of one, for sure). And then Claude stands on the rim of the hole and he looks at Roger, who has very recently begun to understand the slightest bit of finch, and he looks up at Roger, and he chirps, “You are a good man.” Which Roger doubts but hopes to be true. And then, in his own silent way, Roger says the same thing back to Claude, more or less, “You are a good finch,” he says, but without using words (because now Roger only has a tongue, and what is a tongue without a heart to speak for it?)
And then Roger gives Claude the only thing he has left to give. He gives Claude his bones which Claude uses to fix his shattered wing.
And then Claude flies up to a nearby tree and watches as the janitor and the nurse tilt the wheelchair forward until Roger’s empty torso rolls off the pleather seat and into the hole. And then the nurse and the janitor begin to fill the hole with dirt.
And then Claude hops higher into the tree until he finds another, thinner branch, a higher up branch, and from there he watches as Roger is buried. And he stays there, on that higher up branch, for weeks, until Roger’s many parts and all the people that now carry them eventually leave the hospital and go home to their families—embracing their children, picking them up and swinging them around in circles, until they’re dying with laughter, until they’re crying, until their eyes are dizzy.
And then Claude goes and finds the man with Roger’s kidneys. The man who looked something like what Roger’s brother would have one day looked like—black hair curled around each of his ears—who’s giving himself a hard look in the mirror, buttoning up his shirt and then driving to the elementary school on the other side of town, stepping up and onto the faded yellow school bus, jiggling the clutch, pressing down on the gas and then the break, driving out on (?)the dirt road to the farthest house on his route, the one out in the woods, the one just barely on this side of the county line. And now he’s seeing his first student, there in the distance, a little girl who (he doesn’t know this yet), has Roger’s heart, Roger’s beating heart, Roger’s rising and falling heart. She’s standing in her front yard, backpack half the size of her body. She’s holding her mother’s hand (who’s waving at the bus driver now, as he approaches). This is her first day of school. She’s feeling the butterflies in her stomach as they open and then close their delicate powdered wings, their antennas tickling the inside of her ribs.
And now the school bus is squeaking to a stop.
And now the big yellow doors are swinging open.
And now the girl is squeezing her mother’s hand, and her mother is leaning down and whispering in her daughter’s ear, “There’s nothing to fear anymore, my love.” And the bus driver, the man with Roger’s kidneys, the man who looks like what Roger’s older brother would have someday looked like if Roger’s older brother hadn’t died when he was twenty-seven, he’s telling the girl, “It’s okay,” as she steps up onto the bus; her big, shy blue eyes turned down to her feet, he’s telling her, “I’m nervous too.” And now the girl is looking up at him. And now she’s walking to the seat directly behind him, scooting in close to the window, pressing her cheek to the plexiglass, as the bus driver waves goodbye to the girl’s mother, pulls the lever to the big yellow doors, watches as they collapse shut. And now he’s looking into the rearview mirror at the girl. And now he’s turning the keys and bringing the old engine to life.
And now the morning is awake.
And now the girl is sitting upright in her seat (she’s spotted something out the window). And now her eyes are wide, and bright, and excited. And now she’s pointing up into the trees across the road, saying to the bus driver, “There it is, there it is,” her fingers tapping against the window, “There it is.”
And now the bus driver is craning his neck back, looking up into the trees where she’s pointing. And now he sees it. And now he’s smiling. “Yes,” he’s saying. “There it is. There’s that bird again.”
Terek Hopkins grew up in California. He studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Oregon, and then moved to Spain, where he taught English as a Second Language for three years. He writes mostly about everything that’s never going to happen. His work has appeared in Columbia Journal and in Connotation Press. You can find more of his stories at terekhopkins.com
Photo by T. Christensen on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND