The Eagle's Egg

We don't have the funds for it," Bob said.

Desperate to stop Bob from crushing the eaglet, the tourist pleaded, "But isn't the whole point of the law, to protect the eagles? Isn't that why you need a permit?"

"No! We'd get fined without a permit! And even if we did have one, I just finished telling you that we don't have enough money to pay overtime. It probably wouldn't make it anyway," Bob growled and then let his boot descend. The tourist winced at the awful squishing sound.

"You had no right to do that! How did you know it wouldn't have made it!? You just told me that she was infertile and that eagles don't mate in captivity," the tourist said.

"You thought there were bald eagles in China. Don't tell me how to do my job!" Bob yelled.

"Fine! I won't tell you how to do your job," the tourist said as he lifted his camera. "I'll let the papers do it for me!" he said and snapped a picture of Bob with his stained shoe resting on the shattered egg. The tourist shot a look of disgust at Bob, turned his back to him, and then stormed away. Bob shook his head and then grabbed a waste can with a discolored rag inside it from a hidden shelf in the room. He slung shiny gobs of the eaglet into the pail. "Some people will never understand the way things work around here," he said to himself.