223

You check the time—6:15 pm.

Just then, your eyes catch movement through space in the boards covering the front window, and you peer outside. A slender figure hobbles across your back field, a man dressed in overalls and work boots. His arms hang by his side but bow outward, and his legs twitch as they take each step. When he turns toward the front of the house, you see the real signs of infection: the yellow skin, the green marks, the fogged-over eyes with dark pupils flitting around like goldfish in a cloudy bowl. Brown strands of drool waver from his mouth to his chin. And for some reason, whether coincidence or a hidden sense, he looks at your front door as if he knows something lives behind it. He climbs the stairs and stops at the front door, eyes fixed forward and head tilted to the side.