My wife was making her own granola when the box of organs arrived. She was baking it, and the house smelled nutty, sweet, toasty, beyond reproach, the way Eden must have smelled before God got pissed and Adam got hungry. The organs changed that. They had been shipped from a New York butcher who was either laying down some kind of gauntlet — eat this, omnivore — or figured anybody with a hunger for organs deserved no better treatment than the organs themselves. The box was cardboard, the kind you usually get mail-order apples in, but what I saw when I flipped open the flaps was nothing less than a biohazard: a big plastic bag full of lamb hearts, another full of lamb kidneys, and another full of lamb balls, as well as a half dozen little white cardboard boxes, two lamb brains to a box. There was no ice, and the bags were not sealed, not even knotted, and as the frozen organs thawed, they'd begun to bleed, the kidneys in particular, since one of the peculiarities of eating organs is that while hearts aren't all that bloody, kidneys are inexhaustibly so, each one a little kidney-shaped artesian well of gore. They'd also begun to smell, for reasons that need no elaboration here. Instantly, the house stopped smelling like granola — essence of innocence, tinctured with blamelessness — and started smelling like an old-folks' home, and Man's Fall from Grace was enacted yet again, by nothing more than our indiscriminate appetites...