Not Andersen Prunty

I visit a strange man in the middle of the night. He lives in a tiny house at the end of a long dirt lane in the middle of nowhere. He tells me he knows I want to eat the onions in his refrigerator but if I do I’ll end up in the hospital. Suddenly I want nothing but onions. I tell him this. He throws open the refrigerator door and says, “Have at it.” I pull an onion out, plop it down on the counter, and grab a knife to slice it. I cut the end of my finger off. I turn and ask the man if he can take me to the hospital. He says he can but all he has is a cart he’ll have to pull. We go outside. I climb into the cart and he hoists the handles. The cart smells like onions. I put the tip of my finger into my mouth and think about the one I lost as we head out into the dusty night.