**\[Click]** *Outside, in the garden of JARED HOPWORTH's domain.* *Sounds of countryside birds chirping happily, a stream with deer chaser fountain, and distant windchimes; all intermixed with cracking bone, wet flesh, and the groans, whimpers and cries of pain of people.* *Footsteps on grass as MARTIN and JON walk.* ### JON Don’t. Touch. Anything. ### MARTIN I wasn’t planning to, heh. Are they still… alive? ### JON More or less. They’re certainly still aware. But they’re just the compost. The pot from which the trees grow. *They pass by a voice gasping in pain. The birds continue to trill.* ### MARTIN I didn’t think there were that many bones in a human body. *JON lets out a humourless laugh.* ### JON Normally there aren’t. *MARTIN exhales.* It takes a skilled gardener to get them to grow like this. The curling, cascading intricacies of collagen and marrow. It takes devotion – ### MARTIN Jon. *Beat.* ### JON S-Sorry. ### MARTIN You sound like you think they’re beautiful. *More steps.* ### JON Don’t you? *Beat.* *Nearby sounds of flesh ripping.* ### MARTIN Is he here? *Someone nearby starts whistling, getting closer; the tune is an English Country Garden.* *JON inhales.* ### JON Up ahead.