Old man Frank lived alone on our block. After retiring, he wasn’t satisfied with being a homebody. He was always poking his head into other people’s business, trying to contribute to any project they might be working on. My wife, son, and I lived next door to Frank, which meant he was practically a member of our family. Cutting the grass, trimming the hedges, even barbecuing; Frank wanted to prove his worth. But on one afternoon that he was helping me garden, he tripped and pricked himself on a piece of root sticking out from the dirt. More blood than I was expecting. Didn’t see him for a few weeks after that.

During one of my afternoon jogs, I stumbled upon Frank on the sidewalk in front of his house. He was operating a hotdog cart.

“Howdy neighbor, how bout a dog? Got some nice juicy ones just about ready.”

I stopped in my tracks, both amused and unsettled. Biggest smile I had ever seen plastered on Frank’s face. He was on another level.

“No charge, this one’s on me neighbor.”

I turned down the offer and continued with my run. When I returned home though, my wife and son were scarfing down a hotdog. In fact, there were a dozen or so neighbors lined up, waiting their turn for Frank’s franks. Nobody even questioned whether Frank had a license, permit, whatever you call it to operate one of these things professionally. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. And Frank reveled in the moment, sharing laughs, chit chatting, making sure others knew he could still provide value in this world.

The sickness kicked in hours later. My wife and son fell ill, bedridden. I knocked on doors to see if others had experienced something similar. Every neighbor I confronted looked feverish, pale in the face. Frank opened his door as soon as I arrived. His right hand was covered in a towel.

“I didn’t mean any harm, I swear.”

“What are you hiding, Frank?”

I ripped off the towel. A black liquid swirled beneath the skin of his palm.

“Something in your backyard Scott.” Frank pressed his thumb and index finger together. “It infected me.”

Black pus extended out from his fingers and slowly turned pinkish. Its final form, a hotdog.

“I’ve never felt better myself. Thought I might be able to share the feeling with others.”

I ran outside and back to my house. I was too late. My wife and son were covered head to toe in a hotdog casing. I dug my fingers into the casing to try to free them, but their liquid remains gushed out.

Seven households including my own lost lives. Frank eventually turned as well. I sold the house and never stepped foot in the backyard again. I’m not sure exactly what happened. Well, other than the fact that Frank’s franks transformed my family into an exploding sausage.