“I have a theory,” he says.
I don’t say anything in response. He always has a theory.
“I have a theory,” he says again, loudly.
“I don’t care.”
“I don’t think it’s a curse,” he says. “I think it’s an infection.”
I want him to shut up and let me finish.
“Because, you know, the way it spreads.”
It makes my head hurt. He thinks he’s uncovering something.
“Just eat,” I say with a full mouth.
Tearing flesh and crunching bones. We chew.
The light of the full moon does little to illuminate any of his theories.