My arm is scraped, my right shoulder feels like it’s stiffening up, and my head hurts. My legs work just fine. When I have to fight, I’ll do best to stick to my left arm. I can’t look in its eyes—I have to remember that. They were too mesmerizing.
Something is moving around inside the house—I see a shadow move through the light spilling from the window and hear a tapping. I don’t know how it got inside. I shouldn’t be surprised. It found a way into the barn.
That leaves me with one option—the truck. I take out my keys and study them with my fingers until I find the one with the square top. That’s the ignition key for the truck. The doors are unlocked. All I have to do is get around the house, jump inside the truck, and get the doors locked.
I duck below the light from the window and make my way along the side of the house.
It would be stupid to assume that there’s only one of them. One might be exploring inside while another patrols the front.
I pause at the corner and angle my head around the side.
The bushes are blocking my view of the front porch. Uncle Walt used to cut them way back every spring. I think he missed the last few. They throw reaching shadows out into the yard.
I wait, looking for any movement.
The tapping coming from inside the house is back.
Was I right before? Is it some kind of echolocation? The eyes are captivating, but maybe they’re just for show. Maybe it navigates only through sound. If that’s true, its hearing could be really acute. I can’t afford to make any noise.
Instead of dashing around the bush and sticking close to the house, I slip away at a diagonal until I’m beyond the pool of light from the windows. My feet brush through the tall grass at the edge of where I mow.
There’s a shape crouching on the porch, under the bird feeder again. I look down and freeze, watching the shape in my peripheral vision. It looks like the head has snapped up. I hold my breath. I think it’s sniffing the air, or maybe just turning its head, trying to listen for me.
I sneak a glance, immediately regretting it.
Even at this distance, I catch sight of the eyes. This one is different—the eyes seem to glow a little green. Squeezing my eyes shut, I manage to turn my head away.
I hear light tapping in the air. It sounds like a hard fingernail thumping against stone. To make sure they don’t jingle, I’m gripping the keys so hard that they’re digging into my palm. I can’t get caught here, frozen by fear.
When I start moving again, the tapping stops.
My eyes are locked on the bush as I step, foot over foot along the edge of the tall grass. It’s turning its head again, listening or sniffing.
The bush is just about to obscure my view of it, and then I’ll reach the corner of the house. From there, it would be a quick sprint to the truck. If I lose sight of it, I won’t know if it’s staying on the porch. I won’t know if I should continue to creep or just sprint.
This is that situation—I’m the rube in the city. If I assume that it’s not creeping behind the bush, and along the side of the house, then I won’t know until it springs out from behind the corner of the house. I have to assume the worst.
With no more delay, I sprint.
(I can't run fast enough.)
I can’t run fast enough.
My legs are pumping beneath me, but the speed won’t come. It’s like I’m moving through molasses, or trying to run up a sand dune. A shadow shifts on my left and I whip my head to see that it’s my own shadow. That was a stupid mistake. If I had seen more of those mesmerizing eyes, I would be caught. In slow motion, I turn my eyes back towards my goal. The truck looks like it’s getting farther away with each sprinting stride.
The keys jangle and sing. I’m gripping only the ignition key. My shoulder throbs each time I pump that arm in time with my legs.
I reach out and put on the brakes too late. After crashing into the passenger’s door, I claw it open and dive inside. My first attempt closes the door on my own shoe. I contract my leg and slam it home. With my elbow, I drive down the near lock. The keys go flying as I reach for the other one.
With both doors locked, I pull myself over the bench seat and slide the rear window closed so I can latch it.
Something has moved in front of the truck.
I submerge my head below the dashboard and reach around.
The keys have disappeared. The cab of the truck isn’t that big. They have to be here somewhere.
I hold my breath when I hear something bump into the body of the truck.
I can’t look up.
It’s almost painful, but I squeeze my eyes shut while my hand searches for the keys. My heartbeat echoes in my chest. My fingers map the terrain of the truck’s floor mat.
When I was a kid, I sucked at running. Even two laps around the soccer field would make me want to throw up. Another boy in my class—Luke Mason, maybe?—taught me to take three strides for every time I take a breath. It doesn’t always work. When I first start running I have to pant until my body settles into the rhythm. I still try to use Luke’s method. It makes me focus on my breathing until it comes under control. So that’s what I do now—focus on my breath. My hand scans back and forth three times, making three passes at the floor, and I take a breath. Over the next three passes,
