It’s the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves. I knew that going into this, to be fair. It just didn't seem like quite as big of a deal at the time. It should have been the quick and easy, tie a ribbon on it and done, part of the operation. The snow storm in the beginning of November made sure that wouldn't be true.

Again, my fault, I suppose, for growing complacent in my role. I should always expect shit to go wrong; it's kind of the standard in this line of work. Nobody gets involved with the mafia because things are going right in their life. And less than nobody uses their role in said mafia to become an informant for the FBI because everything had gone the way it was supposed to.

That leaves me - miles away from the nearest trace of human civilization, in an area so remote I lost cell phone service 10 miles back, cleaning up my mess as I prepare to return to the mess that my life has become.