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The streets surrounding the bakery are just as deserted as they were during my first visit. There's no sign of Marty or Penny or anyone else. It's dark, and I'm the only one standing beneath this dim streetlight, balancing myself on crutches. The department didn't feel comfortable letting me keep my pistol outside of work hours. Now I'm the one not feeling so comfortable.

The bakery ruins look larger now, perhaps because I can't make out the contours of their borders. Staring at them with bleary eyes strained by a day of computer screens, Penny's stories don't seem nearly as far-fetched. There could be anything lurking in those twists of wreckage.

Something calls me to the bakery door we visited earlier. Call it a police officer's intuition, call it trusting my gut, but a feeling pushes me to check it out. Maybe that's where Marty and Penny went. It'd make as much sense as anything else on this silent street.

I click on a mini flashlight and stick it between my teeth. I shore up my grip on the crutches and hobble in the direction of the bakery door. Using my lips, I point the light onto its dented paneling a few hundred feet away, then stop in my tracks.

The door is open.

The light must be playing tricks on me. There's no way that door could've budged an inch.

I look over my shoulder and scan my surroundings. It's empty. Silent. Still. I'd compare the feeling to standing at the bottom of a canyon and looking up. Lost. Helpless.

The crutches grind grit against the sidewalk as I make my way to the door. A sound from behind me has me struggling to turn 180 degrees to face it. Almost sounded like someone calling my name. Must be Marty.

That's him, alright. Standing beneath the streetlight, he's got his back turned to me. I respond with, "Over here, Marty."

Marty turns to face me. There's something off about the way he does it, though. It's slow, especially by police standards. Someone calls out your name in a place like this, you don't take your sweet time figuring out what's happening. The way he turns is mechanical, like a gear turning. Wait. No, it's not even like that. It's like he lifts up off the ground a couple inches, twists in place and is set back down on the ground. His arms remain motionless.

Here comes that policeman's intuition again. It tells me my odds are better heading into that bakery door that isn't supposed to be open. I ignore it. This is Marty, in the flesh, not some random creep.

"You feeling OK, Marty?" I say and hobble back toward the streetlight. I can't make out his face yet.

"Come here," Marty says in a terse whisper. It's barely audible.

"What were you doing out here? Is Penny around?" I say, scanning my surroundings. We're still the only two out here.

"No," comes Marty's response, the quiet word almost eaten alive by a gentle breeze. Something isn't right. Is he hurt? His posture mimics the streetlight.

My eyes look for signs of injury. Nothing.

I stop in place once I get close enough for a good look at his face. I'm reminded of something Penny mentioned before. What was it? Having a "loose face?" I'd say that sums up Marty's appearance. His skin sags from his skull, as if the muscles and ligaments beneath it had been snipped. Did he have a stroke?

"Come here," Marty says again, once more requiring my full attention in order to hear the words.

His face isn't the end of it. There's something else. My eyes trace its thin form running from inside Marty's pant leg, onto the pavement and back to the open bakery door. It's a cord.

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