It’s quieter than she can remember it ever being. The sirens and panic and gunfire that replaced the normal sounds of city life have themselves been replaced by an intense smothering silence. The power is out, there is no phone service, and her windows, which overlook a narrow alley, reveal nothing.
Because it is quiet, she is quiet. She tiptoes in stocking feet from the couch to the door, puts her eye to the peephole. He’s still there, blood caked around his mouth now turned brown, staring at her door with dry dull eyes.
She tiptoes back to the couch.