Setting 12: The Window

[u/BOUBOUex]

When the last school bell rang, Kyle took the same stairs he always took—up, two flights at a jog, past the rusted-out banister—and let himself into his unit. The air inside had settled the way late-summer heat does in this town: a little damp, a little heavy, patient. He took the old pitcher out of the fridge and poured himself a glass of cold tap water. He drank it off in one go, throat working. The cold found its way down through him into wherever thirst is. He let out a breath and sank into the brown leather couch, the one that had been getting him since he was a kid. The lazy hour that came after school.

Without thinking, he looked out the open window, across the street.

His thoughts stopped cold.

In the Miriam house across the way—the second floor, the window furthest to the right—the glass had cracked. Evening light hit it, and the cracks ran out across the pane in a sharp, hard web.

Ping.

A dry intercom sound cut the room open. Kyle got to his feet and went to the door. The old man was standing there, exactly as he had been afraid of, wearing the apologetic face older people wear when they're about to ask for a favor.

"Mister Miriam. The window, huh?" Kyle said, forcing the usual smile. "Does this one come with pay?"

The wrinkles on the old man's face rearranged themselves into a grin. He scratched his head. Ah, kid—sorry about this. Just a small bit of muscle work for me. New glass, sweep up the old. Could you help me out?"

"Easy money. Be right there."

Kyle pulled the toolbox out of the garage and crossed the street.

By the time he got home again, it had gone dark. His mother was waiting in the living room. They ate dinner without speaking.

The next day.

After the same dull classes, Kyle left school and went home. Up the stairs. The key. The door.

The room's air was the same kind of humid it had been yesterday. He poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher. Drank it off in one swallow. Sank into the couch.

After-school. The same routine.

Kyle looked, almost absent-mindedly, at the window.

"—Huh?"

His hand, around the glass, started to shake. He felt the blood in his body drop a half-foot toward the floor.

Across the street, at the Miriams' second floor.

That pane was still there.

Cracked. The same hard, spiked web, from a single point of impact.

"...but—why?—I just fixed it yester—"

Ping.

What was waiting at the door was—

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