Martin slipped the unknown Frenchman’s ulna into the sleeve of his jacket. The bone felt like a long, dry stick of chalk against his skin. With practiced nonchalance, he joined a departing tour group and strolled out of the Paris Catacombs.
Back home a week later, he placed the bone atop a low bookcase, amused by this new conversation piece.
The next morning, he headed downstairs and found the bone missing. His normally sweet dog, Lola, stood beside the shelves, growling as if possessed.
She lunged for his arm, vengeance in her eyes. Martin’s transgression would no longer go unpunished.