The Window

You said RUN. Before you jumped, you left Lily three words on the table.

A note for Lily, left on the table. Three words: I'm still me.

Out the window. Second floor. You land wrong and your ankle folds sideways. It doesn't hurt. You push it back.

The street is full of them. Thirty. Forty. They turn toward you, smell the air, and walk right past. You're one of them.

Across the street: Theo, the neighbor's kid. Eight years old, on the roof of a car, with thirty of them around it. You can smell how scared he is, and the hunger jumps to thirty-five percent.

Behind you, your house. Lily is still inside. Your dad still has the shotgun.