They sat on buckets in the supply closet, sipping weak coffee for twenty minutes before Nolan's head stopped spinning. He looked up at his supervisor.
“Why?” was all he could manage.
Samuel swallowed hard and itched a finger under his eye patch. “Well, son, the Breeders’ ways is not for us to know. We clean their shit and they feed us.” He dropped his head, running a calloused finger around his coffee mug. His bald patch gleamed in the overhead bulb. “But, I'll tell ya. Them girls in there, something went wrong on their insides. Made 'em broken both down here,” he pointed to his paunch, “and here.” He pointed to his head. “They ain't aware. They can't feel. Knowing that makes looking at them a bit better.”
Nolan shook his head. “But they're…alive?” Before he could stop, the images flashed through his mind—rancid bed sores, hair falling off in clumps, their skeleton faces with paper thin skin. He shivered and fought the urge to lose what was left of his lunch.
Samuel watched and nodded sadly. “Technically speaking, I guess they're alive. The babies in their bellies come out bawling just like the rest of 'em. But their brains ain't alive. They're heads are empty as this bucket.” He kicked the heel of his boot into the plastic with a thunk, thunk. He leaned forward, his paunch spilling into his coveralls. “Best not to think on it. Hey” —he said, shaking Nolan's shoe— “today's payday.”
Nolan nodded, but his enthusiasm for a payday had gone the way of his lunch, heaved out at the sight of those girls. He stood up on weak legs. “But, we don't have to go in there again” —he looked up at Samuel— “do we?”
The slow sad nod of Samuel's head turned Nolan's stomach again. “Yes, lad. Yes, I'm afraid we do.”