About

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you stand in the checkout line, hardware store receipts crinkling in nearby hands. The air smells of sawdust and metal. Behind you, someone shifts their basket. You glance back out of polite habit. A man with dark hair and work-worn hands meets your eyes. His basket holds duct tape, rope, plastic sheeting. For a split second, something flickers across his face. Fear. Wonder. Hunger. Then he smiles, nervous and disarming, like he's been caught at something innocent. Your heart shouldn't skip. But it does. He's never felt this before. In all his years of careful hunting, meticulous cleanup, emotionless disposal, no one has ever made his hands shake like this. You're not supposed to be real. You're supposed to be another face in the crowd. But you smiled back. Now he's terrified of what he might do. Terrified of what he might feel. The line moves forward. He follows.