Giselle Bamford jerked open the back door of Moss’s Butcher Shop, her heart thumping in her ears, her breathing ragged gasps. Snatching her apron off a hook on the wall, she jerked it over her head and quickly tied it around her waist, her fingers trembling, making the task almost impossible, but she fumbled through it, yanking it tight just as she shoved her way into the front of the store.
“I’m telling you, Judy, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Betsy Moss, wife of the shop owner, said to the elderly woman on the other side of the glass counter. “Can you imagine those poor parents?”
Judy just nodded, her eyes scanning the lamb chops in the case. “Are those still on special?”
Giselle stepped up to the counter. “Who’s next?” Her voice was just as shaky as her fingers. The butcher shop overflowed with people, most scanning the aisles or glass cases. A few added to Betsy’s tale, sharing their versions of disgust and disbelief.