The wooded lot itself was mixed scrub of the sort that grows in the disturbed soil along an interstate corridor in central Florida. Pine. Palmetto. A few scrub oaks. Spanish moss hanging where the canopy thickened. The understory of vines and dead palm fronds that turns any walk off the shoulder into a careful one.

The lot was bordered on one side by the interstate, on another by a service road, and on the other two by more of the same scrub. It had the anonymity of land nobody owns in any way they bother to enforce. People dumped things in there. Refrigerators. Mattresses. The carpet remnant.

The men got closer to the carpet. The carpet was covering something.

Underneath was a body

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