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Sitting cross legged, perched on a garbage bag in the snow bank across the street. Clothes supplied by a Peruvian peasant, perhaps. Sam watched her through the store window for three days, noting her arrival promptly at nine o'clock and her departure just before he and Pete, his father, locked up at seven. Other habits he observed: she went into the gas station halfway down the block twice a day, most likely to use the washroom, smoked only in the afternoons and ate a sandwich just after one o'clock. That was the only time her sign rested on the ground, instead of its usual home, resting on her shoulder. 'Meat is Murder' in tall, red letters, a bold declaration for the station wagons and hatchbacks that peeled down the road. Some honked, others threw Styrofoam coffee cups. She never reacted.

"Poor kid," Pete said the first morning she appeared. "Doesn't she have any parents or family? Is she gonna sit out there like a squatter forever?" His compassionate attitude only lasted the first day, and yesterday he threw dark looks out the front window. But this morning, the fourth day, he neglected mentioning her at all and whistled "Brown Sugar" while they unloaded the day's shipment of meat, Sam's shoulders aching with the weight of stiff flesh. When they were done, eviscerated hog carcasses and sides of beef hung from grappling hooks in the freezer. They inspected the hog hides for bristles, thin, sharp blades with stout wooden handles as tools.

"Last time we got pork from Newberry's, it was prepped so sloppy I had to junk at least a quarter of the meat," Pete muttered as he scraped his blade down the left shoulder of the first hog. "We'll have to be extra careful. I told that bastard Jake he had one more chance." Sam hauled beef hindquarters onto the cart to take to the cutting room to prep for butchering.

"You'll want to get started on those soon," Pete reminded him. "Fridays are prime for steak." He paused. "Prime?"

Sam shook his head at Pete's broad face split with a grin. "I get it, Dad, I get it." Still chuckling, the older man inspected the sides of beef dangling from the ceiling.

"Look at this beauty," he said, running his fingers up the ribs. "The marbling is exquisite, absolutely gorgeous. I'm always amazed by Alberta beef." He pushed the side slightly and swayed with the bovine pendulum, singing "Lovely, lovely, my darling girl, my sweet Hereford lady."

***

"We just have to ignore her," Pete had said yesterday. "She wants a reaction, wants us to call the cops, yell and screech and have her ass hauled to jail so she'll get in the paper. Bring more notoriety to her cause. Well," he'd snorted, wiping the counter furiously, "no such luck, missy."

"Maybe we should go talk to her," Sam had offered, staring at her sign across the street. "Ask her to leave, or what she's doing?"

Pete looked puzzled. "Why the hell would we do that? You gonna ask her out or something? Invite her in for a steak?" Sam didn't pursue the issue further. Instead, he kept his tacit, tenuous watch.

He restocked the hamburger in the display case, while Pete ground sausage meat in the back. Early afternoon, snow began, tiny beads flying fast and stinging. He watched the girl for any response, a shiver, a shift, but she remained stationary, picket on shoulder, face to the wind. The door jingled open. A diminuative, elderly woman in a ragged fur coat wiped her boots, legs trembling slightly.

"Looks like that ridiculous vagabond is still out there," she muttered, untying the scarf protecting her pin curls. "When are the police going to do something about it, I ask you? Hmmph. How are you this afternoon, dear?" she asked, noticing Sam.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Clark, how are you?"

She sighed, eyeing the skirt steaks. "This cold doesn't agree with my knees." She paused and tapped the glass, clucking her tongue. "It doesn't seem to agree with the price of the meat, either."

"The prices are the same as they were last week, Mrs. Clark."

She looked hard at Sam, as if to catch him in a lie. "I don't know about that. Where's your father this morning?"

"He's in the back making sausage. We got a shipment of hogs this morning."

The older woman looked hard at Sam and squinted. "You're looking awfully thin these days. That sweater's hanging off you. Don't you eat anything?"

"What would you like today, Mrs. Clark?"

"Won't find yourself a young lady to settle down with if you don't put some flesh on." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "They like something to hold on to, y'know. You're well into the age to be thinking about that, aren't you?"

Sam gritted his teeth. "I just cut these T-bones this morning. Jasper and Rufus would love them. Give them something to gnaw on, get their fangs into."

The older woman stared at him a moment more before waving her hand toward the display case. "No, T-bones are too common for my boys. I'll take two porterhouses, a flank steak and, oh, a pound of hamburger. The regular kind, mind you." Pete stuck his head around the corner.

"Hello, Iris!" he called. "Sam looking after you all right?"

"He's a little ornery today, you better watch out."

Pete laughed. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He joined Sam at the counter and put his arm around his shoulders. "You know, Iris, Sam's the reason I met his mom. Ruth was trying to force Sam into the car after a trip to the doctor's for shots. He was screaming and screeching, livid about his sore arm, screaming so loudly that other people were coming up and trying to figure out if Ruth was his mother or if he was being kidnapped. I was getting into my car, just down from hers, and one gutsy old woman got really close and said, 'little boy, is this your mommy?' and Sam, with all the fury he could muster, yelled, 'yes, but I HATE her GUTS!'" Pete laughed again.

Mrs. Clark clucked her tongue and pinned her scarf back on her head. "Are you going to do anything about that out there?" she asked, jerking her head toward the door.

Pete stopped laughing and removed his arm from Sam. "Nothing yet. She's just a kid, not really harming anything. I know I had my convictions when I was younger. A little opposition keeps it interesting, right?"

Mrs. Clark gathered her parcels, exhaled loudly and left. They watched as she approached the girl and said something, waving her hand towards their store. The girl looked straight at her, but didn't reply. The older woman continued on her way.

Pete tapped him on the shoulder and winked. "Almost done with the sausage," he said, and returned to the back room. Outside, the wind had died down, but the snow was falling faster and the protestor had accumulated a dusting of powder on her head and sign. About to look away, he noticed her curl her fingers into the sleeves of her jacket. He paused, took a five from his wallet.

"I'm going out for coffee," he yelled to the back. Heading to the gas station, he bought two large cups and grabbed handfuls of cream and sugar. As he approached the girl on the garbage bag, he noticed her cheeks, pink with cold but gleaming, and her lips pale red, crusted with chapped skin. She was much younger than he'd assumed, the oversize clothes concealing her youth. The picket rested on her shoulder.

"Want a coffee?" he asked, offering a cup. She peered up at him from under the brim of her knit hat. "I thought you might be cold."

She accepted the cup, added three sugars and slurped it down fast. "Well, aren't you a smarty pants?" Her voice cut high and childish in the cold air. "Sitting out here in the effing snow is indeed chilly." She coughed, phlegm rattling in bronchioles.

"Look, you wanna come inside for a bit?" He scuffed his feet in the snow and tried not to think about Pete's reaction. You let her IN? "I mean, you obviously have a job to do out here and it's probably against your, uh, principles and everything, but the snow will only get worse." She studied him, searching his face for mockery.

"Okay," she conceded. "But I get to take my sign." Without waiting for an answer, she was on her feet and across the street, skittering into the shop. Inside she removed her hat, jacket and sweater, revealing a dingy men's undershirt and corduroys crusted with mud but held up with a wide black belt. The skin on her arms smooth like tea with milk.

"What's your name? I'm Millicent." She leaned back against the front counter, elbows resting, head rolling from side to side.

"Sam." He took a drink of coffee, seared his tongue, but hardly noticed. Snow from her boots melted in dirty puddles on the floor.

"So, why our shop?" They looked at the front window, "Levi & Sons" etched backwards in the glass.

"Why not?" She rubbed her palms together. "So, are you Levi or a son?" she asked, mouth twitching.

Sam shrugged. "Do you really believe that?" he asked, nodding at the sign.

"I wouldn't proclaim it to the world on the street if I didn't. Do you have an opinion?"

"I think it's pretty obvious, given my profession."

She smiled, lips closed. "You didn't answer my question, are you Levi or a son?"

"I'm neither."

She looked him over head to toe, from the messy hair and jeans to the sweater that didn't fit well enough for Mrs. Clark. "It's evident you could be a son, but I don't like to suppose anything."

"My dad owns the store. But he's my stepdad, so I'm not really a Levi."

"Where are the rest of them, then? I hate to think of these sons of Levi, wandering the earth, searching for responsibility, only to be thwarted by an imposter stepson."

Sam smiled. "There weren't any. Just me. The original Levi was his father."

"I see." Millicent trailed her fingers along the length of her arms.

"What did Mrs. Clark say to you?"

"Who?"

"The old woman in the fur coat. It looked like she was talking to you."

Millicent laughed. "She told me I was wasting my time and that shiftless tramps like me would end up frozen on the street. Whatever."

He sat down on the bench by the door. "You didn't really answer my question. Why are you doing this? I'd think you'd support the small business owner. Why aren't you picketing Safeway?"

She shrugged. "No one notices. I'm sure you and your stepdad are good people, but it's nothing personal. I've done taxidermists, butcher shops, agriculture expos ..." She gestured helplessly.

"Agriculture expos?"

She nodded and began braiding a few strands of her long hair. "By the end of last summer I was banned from three separate fairs in Lethbridge. Damn UFA." A door slammed in the back room.

"Sam, I thought you were going for coffee …" Pete rounded the corner, stopping short. "What's going on?" he asked.

"This is Millicent," Sam said quickly. "It's getting really cold outside." She waved and offered a small smile.

The older man was quiet for a few moments and looked down at his bloody apron. "You're welcome to warm up, Millicent," he said finally. "I'd offer you something to eat, but I don't know if we have anything to tempt you."

"I'm fine," she said, smiling again at Pete, "but also much warmer now, so I'll be leaving. Thanks for your hospitality and the coffee." She pulled on her sweater and jacket, picked up her sign and headed out of the shop with a last look over her shoulder at Sam.

"What the hell was that?" Pete asked, eyes wide. "You're gone for five minutes and you come back with the protestor?" Sam stared at his hands. Pete took off his apron, exchanging it for a clean one. "I'll finish the beef," he said finally. "The Martins are bringing us a few bucks and a moose tomorrow, so we'll have a lot of work for the weekend." He moved to the back door and paused. "You know she'll be gone in a few days."

"I know." Pete nodded.

***

Millicent sat outside for the rest of the afternoon, picket on shoulder. Snow continued pelting the sign and garbage bag. Business was slow in the shop, which Pete noted and attributed to the weather. Sam took his turn in the cutting room, working with a side of beef. Holding cold fat and muscle firmly with one hand, he gripped the knife handle in the other and thrust the blade between the fifth and sixth rib. He worked the knife through as much meat as he could, and then used the power saw to cut through the backbone. Wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm, he pushed the two halves apart. He hauled the severed forequarter to one side of the work table and began marking his next cuts on the hindquarter.

One standing rib roast, one tenderloin and other lumps and slabs, some for display, some wrapped. On the table lay the left over bones and scraps. Sam picked up the split back bone and worked one of the broken vertebrae apart. Cleaning off the bits of flesh stuck to the bone with a small knife, he passed it back and forth between his hands, edges scraping his skin. Working quickly, he freed the rest of the vertebrae. He formed around his osseous building blocks, held them in place with globs of fat and gobbets of flesh. The vertebrae formed the base; bone splinters wrapped in thin strips of discarded muscle formed legs and arms. Cold, solid fat carved to a curved torso, breasts and hips and an arching neck. More flesh, fat and bone created his sculpture, a woman of beef scraps. Standing back to examine his work, the sharp scent of blood touched his nostrils. Sam's stomach heaved. He paused, but then swept the statue and the other scraps into a garbage bag and hauled the sack to the locked metal bin out back of the shop for the rendering plant. He leaned against the brick wall by the bin, filled his lungs and let his feet grow cold in the grimy snow.

The Martins called for help with hauling their bucks, so Pete left at six o'clock with the pickup, informing Sam that if he forgot to lock up again, he would be without a job, family or thumbs. Before closing, Sam cleaned blood from the floor of the cutting room and wiped the fingerprints and smudges from the display case and front window. Dusting the sill, he saw that Millicent had abandoned her post early. Leaving the store and about to turn the key in the lock, he heard his name. She leaned against the building, sign resting beside her.

"Hi." His throat filled with sand. She walked up to him and stood so close he smelled shampoo residue and the stale smoke clinging to her clothes. Her jacket gaped open, throat and chest exposed. Sam's guts pitched as he imagined running the tip of his tongue from the cleft between her clavicles to the fine hairs at the base of her neck.

"Are you cold?" she asked, her voice low. He nodded. She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. Icy hands prodded his chest, worked through buttons and fabric to center on his sternum, palm flat on his skin. Sam stopped breathing at the sensation of the touch of chilled flesh on his heart. She smiled. "You're not cold. Very, very warm." Stepping back, she picked up her sign and began to walk away.

"Come inside?" Sam called, his voice frantic, though weak. "I don't know if you have anywhere to sleep." She looked over her shoulder, shook her head and kept walking, eventually disappearing into the snow.

***

That night Sam dreamed. In the front room of the butcher shop, Millicent twirled, her hair swirling, shoulders rolling. Breasts covered by a pair of outside round steaks, strung together by tendon and tied around her back with butcher twine. Her skirt a bundle of dangling beef strips tied from the waist, a barbarian hula dancer. She spun in a slow pirouette, steak fanning out around her thighs, Sam catching glimpses of skin. Her dance grew faster and she crashed into him, pressed her body, the meat against his side. The metallic odor filled his nose.

"So warm, so warm," she whispered, running her fingers across his clavicles. Sam jumped awake. The clock read 4:27. Pulling on jeans and a sweater, he stumbled into sneakers and ran out the front door completely eschewing a jacket. He continued unsteadily down the streets, skidding on the icy patches under the snow, ignoring the wind cutting through his clothes. By the time he reached the butcher shop, his face burned with numbness and his lungs rasped. He collapsed to the sidewalk, then hoisted himself to sitting on the pavement, cold seeping through his jeans. In front of the door to the shop was a small pile of snow, smoothed and rounded to a near perfect dome. In the centre lay a hand print, half an inch deep. Sam lifted his hand above the indent, hovering before tracing the small impression with shaking fingertips, melted snow wetting his skin.