Abbatoir is a grammar. It was not tho only That next to the school in the field as much as it was What– a proverbial meat processing plant. An enormous Venus fly trap in perpetual rumination? No, much more terrifyingly beige and systematic–all about product. The facilities–no one really knows what they looked like–sat at the end of a long straight road the trucks hauling the trailers– with the slits you could see sunlight and snouts and eyes through–turned onto. A dead end. The plant’s mascot was a cartoon pig in a sagging white toque, smoking a cigarette and toasting you, dear potential devourer, with a flaming shot glass and a wink. “Home of the Smiling Worker” the slogan. The Children in All Towns converging on the school were for having some errant Ways and turn agains tho nonetheless hydrated Each. That if an Enemy comes into them, he may be at a Loss, and be in Confusion and Suspense or what they called in Code the Changing, which was theirs, the Children’s Confusion, divine and discomfiting. The air drifting in from the silent field into the humidity called Cafeteria smelled of old blood, and, in a Way they sought not to know, many of the Children became prone to floating. A Hover heavenward. Into fluorescence. Erstwhile, stray Cloven, having wandered schoolward dazed from the end, found their way beneath them. In this the Exchanging the elders feigned aloof for what do you do with bewildered Joy, else if they push on daringly.