Sausage

The crunching noises were irritating, but the constant beeping of the back up alarms, the way the rude and rough men yelled at each other and the stinky aroma of diesel and rank sweat were the worst to her.
Every day, they kept the machinery roaring, tearing up more of the park and doing oddly rushed things with rope and string and levels and GPS boxes, making grids and sifting sand and dirt.
With the window closed, she could see their rippled back muscles and, almost hear the shouting, and even see some of the arm waving and frantic calling on cell phones.
She finished filing her nails as they finished dragging the lake. All that effort, she thought.
Not that it would do them any good to keep looking in the wrong places. He was still in the freezer, and she was really good at making sausage.