Someone is in my house. Someone I do not know. Someone I do not want. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Yesterday was the third day my door was left unlocked; all five locks. Today, I came home to a warm stove and dirty dishes. This is no rat or ghost, this is a man. A man that is here for a reason, I can not let this man stay.

I check the door hatches, two on top, two on bottom. Press the lock, press it again. Seven steps to the pantry. New rations are missing. I can not afford to feed another mouth, it is already impossible to feed my own. Inside is my safe place, my sanctuary. Outside is bad; outside burns my skin until I bleed. The bad men are outside; not inside. Not in here with me, why must you be in here with me?

I search the bedroom, the bathroom, the attic. The bad man is a good hider, I can not find him anywhere. I bet he believes he outsmarted me, but I know how he thinks, and just like any other animal: he needs to eat. I will make a trap like the ones for the two-headed rabbits from outside, so the next time the bad man comes to eat, I will be there. I will be waiting. I move all my food to the counter to put it on display, meanwhile, I hide in the closet with the whole room in view.

The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking, I have been here for hours. The sun has come and gone and I still have yet to move. I hunger; my food usually repulses me since the maggots get to it first, but seeing it sitting on display; my stomach practically pulls me out of my hiding place. If I am this hungry, the bad man must be too, so I must hold out.

The sun is about to rise again as my eyelids grow heavy. Yet it is now that I finally see movement. My muscles shoot awake; I grip the barrel of my gun. The movement is small and in shadow, but it is the bad man, I am certain. A hand reaches up toward the counter and I take my moment. I kick open the closet door and roar from the bottom of my gut. The bad man whips around. His eyes are huge and watering, he shakes in fear of me. He is the smallest man I have ever seen, skin peels off the sides of his face. His hands are bruised, blackened, and lacking fingernails. The bad man must have been outside, this is only damage the sun can do. The trigger feels like a thousand pounds, he is a scoundrel and a thief, I must put him down. So why can’t I pull it? My hands begin to shake almost as much as his, and though the bad man trembles in fear, he reaches out to me. He cups my hand in his, and a whisper scrapes through his ripped throat. The bad man says please.

I lower my weapon, and the bad man begins to weep. I hold him, I don’t know why but I hold him. I have never held anybody before, but I hold him; what is wrong with me? His skin feels warm, at first I thought it must be the remnants of the sun, but as we hold each other, I realize his warmth is different. It is deeper, fuller, like it was born from a place of life; therefore nothing like the sun’s. I try to pull away, only to realize he has passed out in my arms. I lay him on the floor. I have a bed, it is much softer than the floor, but I lay beside him and watch him breathe. I must make sure he does not steal from me again, I must keep my eye on him. Right now, he is asleep and defenseless, and I wonder if I should go back to my gun. 

Last time he was looking me in the eyes; last time he was begging. He can not beg while he is asleep, therefore this time I will not fall for his tricks. This time I can do what I have to.

Slowly reaching for my gun, I keep my eyes on him. As I stare, another thought crosses my mind. What if he is not like the other outsiders? What if he is a good man? A good man like me? One mouth is impossible to feed on my own, but two working together? That must be better than one. I suppose I will let the bad man sleep. This is a thought I can continue once the sun goes away and it is cool enough to move. 

I fall asleep beside him.

When I wake, I notice the bad man is gone from his resting place, leaving a dark red stain of his outline. Why did he abandon me after I spared him? It leaves me with a weight in my stomach, but as I am convincing myself it is for the best, the bad man walks around the corner. He seems cleaner. His hands are not dirty and his scars have been washed. He used my bathroom without permission.

I must set boundaries.

I move to my window and watch for outsiders, staying at my post is what keeps me alive. The bad man does not seem to have the same sense of survival as I do; he stays in the kitchen and uses the oven and plates. I keep my eye on him too. Tonight I watch him more than my window. He is unusual. He hums an annoying tune and dances to no music, he also wastes my food. Throwing together small portions of different meats and vegetables I have gathered. I risked my life outside for that meat, and he just throws away the skin.

After some more time he hands me what he has been making; an inefficient dish to be sure. I once survived two weeks on nothing but half a carrot, so a mix of rabbit, lettuce, and bell pepper is a waste. But as I eat it I feel that warmth again; his warmth. I decide I will keep letting him make food and dance by himself if it keeps him happy. If he is happy then he will not turn on me. If he is happy he will stay.

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