Early the next morning after receiving my orders, I boarded an American Airlines flight at JFK. My cheap seat was right in the middle of the row, sandwiched between two black dudes. What were the chances, I thought. As soon as I sat down, we struck up a conversation.

"Hey maaan, are you a photographer?" the one on my left asked, taking a look at my camera case.

"Actually, I'm a reporter, but sometimes we have to be photographers too".

"You're not headed to SPRINGFIELD, are you?"

"Now that's a good guess," I winked. "Have you been?"

"Yeah maaan. The food there is real good, for Ohio. There's a place you should go."

"Wait, you're not going there to cover the pet eating thing, are you?" asked the seatmate on my right. "You know my people don't eat those animals. The French eat cat. And they taught the Vietnamese to eat it too. In Haiti we like to eat pussy." He winked back at me. "Just not pussy CAT."

"Well some people eat dog in my home country," said my other seatmate. "They're a real nuisance, all those strays running around. Why let perfectly good food go to waste?"

"You can't be serious," I rolled my eyes at him. He shrugged, and smiled wryly.

Two hours later, we touched down in Hebron Kentucky, just south of Cincinnati. On our way off the departure ramp, he handed me a folded slip of paper. "Remember what I told you," he said. "Go there at 7pm sharp and ask for Omario. Tell him Tyrone sent you."

***

It was mid-afternoon by the time I had secured a rental car and made it all the way out to Springfield. My stomach rumbling, I remembered the slip of paper, and unfolded it.

WESTCOTT HOUSE, it read. A famous Frank Lloyd house. I had expected a restaurant.

I had quite a bit of time to kill before 7, so I pulled up Yelp on my phone and navigated to the local China Buffet. The parking lot outside was cracked with faded lines, and the peach-colored masonry of the building looked like it needed a new coat about 10 years ago. The booths inside were old-school diner style, and looked like they could use a deep cleaning. Well, the uglier the outside, the better the food, Antony Bourdain used to say. I grabbed a seat and flipped through a greasy menu. Chow mien, cashew peanut, Singapore noodles...

It couldn't be.

The waiter came by, and noticed my inquisitive raised eyebrow. "Hello sir, is that really what it says it is?" I asked, pointing to a picture on the menu of a platter of meat smothered in red sauce that read, "Hot Dog". It was not in a bun.

"Yes, very special meat. You want try?"

"Is it made of pork?

"No, is hot DOG!" the waiter exclaimed, with a big smile. I looked at him in horror.

"Just kidding," he laughed. "We don't serve dog at our restaurant. There isn't any available around here, ever since--" he checked himself.

"Since what?" I asked, continuing with what I hoped was a joke.

"Ever since... well let's just say, a big bidder showed up on the market. No hot dog, unless you want American hot dog."

"Uh, I think I'll go with the veggie lo mein", I said, gingerly pointing at something that looked a bit safer.

I finished my meal and peeled out of there as quickly as I could. I still had time to kill, so I drove around town for a bit and get my bearings. There were a good number of Haitians walking around. They all looked normal. No one was collecting clay for pies, capturing ducks at the local pond, or walking their do--

NO DOGS. I noticed the local dog park was empty. And it was after 5pm. That seemed a little strange. In my remaining time, I decided to look up this house. An entire interior map of the house was available for free online through an app. I studied it, fascinated.

As sunset neared, I drove to the Wescott House and wandered into the entrance. A heavyset man stared at me in the lobby.

"Hello, is your name by any chance Omario?" I asked him, extending my hand.

"Who's asking?" He had a giant booming voice that could have wilted Fanstory flower poetry. His hands remained at his sides.

"I'm an investigative reporter from the New Yorker." He didn't react. Then I remembered. "Tyrone sent me."

He froze. Five seconds passed.

"Follow me," he said, gesturing. We walked: down a dimly lit hallway, then a turn, then a stairwell that seemed to appear out of nowhere. I didn't remember seeing that in the architecture plans just an hour ago.

Down another dimly lit hallway. Then an old elevator, with doors that had to be manually closed. It swayed and squeaked as we descended down what I guessed was another five floors before banging to a stop. I followed Omario down one more passage that opened up into a concrete monolithic chamber. It was filled, floor to ceiling, along all walls, with empty cages. Fluorescent light fixtures evenly spaced along the ceiling flickered, illuminating us in pale blue light.

Omario stopped and turned. "We're here."

"Are these what I think they are?" I asked him. "Dog cages?"

"We're awaiting a delivery."

"Who's the buyer?"

"That information is going to cost you. And it's off the record. STRICTLY." He raised his voice with the last word, though he'd already made his point.

I reached into my pocket and forked over a wad of 100s that my boss had told me I might need. When Omario was done counting it, he looked at me with a stare that could have frozen lava.

"It's Kamala."

"And... what does she do with them?" I felt the lo mien turn in my stomach.

"You know."