Yesterday morning, I woke up with nothing. I’ve still got all of it.
Thirty hours awake. It’s six AM, and I’m walking toward the inevitable. More precisely, I’m walking down an empty suburban street to Kayla’s house. There’s something I must deliver.
Nice neighborhood. Lots of trees, well-kept lawns, no cars parked on the street. Basketball goals for the kids, luxury cars for mom and dad. Here and there, a bike tipped over in the lawn, a forgotten toy left undisturbed during the night.
Sweat drips down my cheek, despite the cool morning. The small stub of a white candle rests in my pocket, and I feel it rub on my thigh as I walk. Someone else’s burnt out memory of Kayla McPherson.
Can’t feel my feet—I only get a slightly dizzy sensation as my head bobs, as though I am disembodied and float to my destination.
Behind it all is the sense that I’m not actually here, and this isn’t really happening.
The McPherson home draws near. A house more modest than its neighbors: no stone pillars, no light fixtures drawing a path to the front door. A place I was once welcome.
I’ll be arrested immediately if I’m caught here, I know. But, this has to be done. My feet press against the curb and crunch across the grass, slick with dew.
I’m on the doorstep. The vague shape of their living room is outlined through the frosted glass panels of the door. As I lean down, I push against one for balance. A clear handprint is drawn from the morning’s cold condensation.
I push a red envelope beneath their door.
And then I walk away. I’ve got a long way to go, and the sun is just rising.