The flies had engorged themselves in the morning light. They bumped into Romasanta’s arms and face as he walked up to the blood-soaked field. He covered his nose and mouth; the air tainted with the smell of iron as he looked over what little was left of his bull. Pieces of guts scattered across the mud, but the drag marks led through the broken fence and into the Black Forest. Somewhere in there lay the rest of his bull.

Book Club Questions: Romasanta