The lady down the street has brought me another pie. Apple, this time. It was still steaming when I noticed it on my doorstep, though she didn’t knock. If she had, I wouldn’t have answered. Jeffrey, she told me once, was her husband’s name. I’m pretty certain she went through my mail, because I don’t recall ever introducing myself to anyone in this neighbourhood.
I’m in the witness protection program. As far as anyone is concerned, I’ve lived in Illinois my whole life. I won’t tell you the city, but it has a lake, and the leaves turn orange and red in the fall. I don’t have a wife or children. I ceased being a son a decade before either of my parents died. Those were the conditions I accepted when I signed my life away to the President of the United States.
Right now, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, watching my cat sunbathe on the windowsill. Earlier, he pawed a stray potato towards me. He’s been watching me ever since, waiting for my next move. I was going to make soup.