Beep

Beep beep beep. Beeeep. Beep beep.

Beep beep beep. Beeeep. Beep beep.

Beep beep beep. Beeeep. Beep beep.

"Do you know what that noise is," he asked with a smile and nodding his head toward the plastic bin. "That beeping from the box. Know what it is?"

Every 10 or 20 seconds it starts again.

We're sitting on a couple of comfortable office desk chairs, an unplugged massage pad on mine, in a nondescript workshop, the last at the end of a row of identical units. Concrete floors, bare drywall, and a gold-coloured mini-van surrounded by workbenches, tools and stretchers. A couple doors leading to more finished rooms in front of the van.

He's thin, middle-aged. A chain smoker. Close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. Well dressed in a black suit, with a textured grey tie. You have to look closely to notice the cargo pockets on the pants, or the steel-toe dress shoes.

My imagination can't process the black-humoured possibilities. "I have no idea," I say with a smirk and a hesitant tone.

It's his turn to smirk now, he knows he's going to love the effect so he pauses and let's the moment linger.

"It's the pace-makers," he points to his chest just below his clavicle, "they have to come out before we send 'em for cremation." He takes a big breath as he starts another cigarette.

"After I collect a bunch I send 'em down to a university in Michigan. I guess they refurbish them and send 'em to a needier part of the world."