The robin’s egg blue still stands out from the dusty nest. The broken shells remain an odd personalia of the day, along with a few dried leaves that surround it. Most of the memory is overshadowed by the sudden flash of Joe’s switchblade as he pressured it against the gaunt jugular vein of the adult bird. I tried to throw my phone at Joe to distract him from killing the bird, but he was determined and made the swift cut of murder. Even as I hold the nest, remembering, I never realized the low act of a future serial killer.