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Sarah finally got around to eating the rest of her son, Andy—the scourge of the third grade girls and most athletic of the third grade boys (however athletic a kid can be at eight years old, although I guess some of them are nine in the third grade)—anyway, she finally finished Andy off, his feet being the only parts left, after like a week getting the rest of his body down, but in her defense she tried everything: baking, braising, battering, broiling; she even tried to sous vide portions of him, whatever it took, though, clearly, it took a while, but eventually, she got him down, and that was that: his classmates were happy, the teachers were happy, the parents were happy, even Sarah was a little happy; she had two other children (another son, four-year old Justin, and an eleven-year old daughter, Emily) and she finally stopped receiving all those phone calls about what Andy did on the playground or what Andy hid in the back of his desk or what Andy said to the substitute teacher; also, once you ate a kid that was it, we figured out a solution if you had another one causing trouble (although, very few kids caused a fuss after their parent(s) ate a sibling); those who had also ate a child were a tight-knit group. They met at the diner over on Clairemont every Wednesday.

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