THE HUNT
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Irrational theories are quickly developed. For whatever reason, 4—being the most common number in our classroom—is surmised as having the best chance of being the first number selected. And 3, with only one hit—me—is quickly dismissed as having no chance. All fine with me.
It’s dark when I arrive home, a hint of gray smearing the sky. In another hour, the morning sun will peek over the distant mountains to the east. A siren will sound; anyone outside will have only five minutes to find shelter before the sun’s rays turn lethal. But it’s rare for anyone to be outside by that point. Fear of the sun ensures that by the time the sirens sound, the streets are empty and windows shuttered. As I slip my key into the keyhole, I suddenly sense something is off. A fragrance? I can’t put my finger on it. I scan the driveway and streets. Other than a few horse-drawn carriages hurrying home, no one’s around. I sniff the air, wondering if I imagined it. Somebody was just here. A few moments before I arrived. I live alone. I have never invited anyone here. Other than me, nobody has even stood at the front door before. Until today. Cautiously, I make my way around the perimeter of the house, looking for signs of disturbance. Everything looks fine. The stockpile of cash left by my father and secreted in the floor boards, though slowly diminishing, is untouched. Closing the front door, I stand listening in the darkness of my home. No one else in here. Whoever was standing outside never came in. Only then do I light the candles. Colors break out. This is my favorite time of day. When I feel like a prisoner taking his first steps of freedom or a diver rising from the depths of the
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10/24/12 2:23 PM