“Can you watch my bag for minute?” the stranger asks. He itches at the small scar just above his eye.

“Sure,” I reply, eyeing the backpack on the park bench between us. My lunch break just started. I have time.

“Thanks.” He hurries away, presumably to find a restroom.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty. I can’t wait any longer. My lunch break is over.

Hoping to find some ID, I tug open the zipper and peer into the backpack.

A severed head inside stares blindly back at me. The face looks familiar.

Especially the small scar just above its eye.

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