GUITAR TOGGLE DARK MODE BACK TO NEXUS When the butcher shop got busy enough to bring her out from her backhouse lair, Sophie transformed into a lizard. Moody and reticent, a second layer of skin on her hands to be shed. Amorphous and annoying, every single action followed up by a minute of handwashing with Bob right next to her. The single upside was the uniform cap that she’d needled Bob into, a scant cover from eye contact that her hairnet alone couldn’t provide. The worst was when the customers would accidentally brush their hands against her own. Handing over cash, juggling the five pound parcels she passed to them, the occasional touchy old woman. Three people stood behind them and Sophie would have to rip off her gloves and stalk back to the sink. Fifteen seconds lathering, at least thirty scrubbing. Backs of the hands, between the fingers and underneath the nails. Every single moment of contact a minute she could’ve spent working and a minute longer under their stares. It made her bristle. Bob took it all with good humor. The chatty customers stretched into ten minute conversations that Sophie would’ve shut down with have a good day and nothing more, regulars held hostage until he was up to date with their lives. Everyone loved him. Everyone wanted him. (Sophie was not blind to the shuffle of the crowd when Bob called her to the second register. The hesitation when she called them up. Reluctancy every step of the way and none of the cheer. Bobby Minard of Minard Meats was a beloved member of the Brighton community and a favorite among the elderly. Sophie Walten was the weird orphan living in his storeroom. The forgotten victim and a perpetual foul mood.) In the backhouse, Sophie dealt only with meat. Big commercial hunks of the stuff shipped to them from farms that she was meant to break down into the bits people recognized. On the wall, a poster with all the common cuts laid out for her. Gloves slicked down with condensation and what juices still remained. The pieces didn’t bleed as much as they seeped. A weeping caught on her gloves and then smeared onto her apron before she could catch herself- another minute at the sink, teeth grit and brows furrowed. Her knives flashing in the dingy light, the radio Bob already had in there crooning low. Two points of entry: the door to fronthouse and the door to dry storage. From dry storage, a door outside. Only two keys to it, and Sophie was already resigned to the idea of Bob eventually killing her. It felt downright domestic. (In there, Sophie was the shapeless menace. She was the man with the knives and the threat. Six months working there, the home field advantage. Any attempts to break the dry storage lock would rattle over the radio. Fronthouse placed an entire person between her and danger. Bob first and enough time to prepare herself for violence. Her hacking knife was just one inch shy the length of her forearm and cleavers winked down from the walls, playful and prepared.) Tucked to the side of dry storage and stitched together, Sophie’s eighty-buck apartment. A job attached to the unofficial lease got the rent that low. Bob’d told her that it had been some extra storage space the previous owner of the building had put in before he’d gotten the idea to fix it up with spartan amenities. A cramped bathroom, a window above the foot of her bed, a hotplate, and permission to use the three compartment sink during off hours. He had smiled over his own ingenuity. Sophie had to take her laundry out to the laundromat a block away. Pressed into the corner, a desk. Beside it, a suitcase for her clothing and a backpack with all of her worldly possessions crammed inside. If she were in a particularly good mood, she would swipe the meatroom radio and keep it soft enough that she couldn’t hear it standing outside her room. If she forced the window open, she had the perfect escape route. Just had to wiggle herself through the two by one foot gap and maintain trajectory for the dumpster directly under it. Her fall would be cushioned by bone, marrow, and skin, and it would preserve her life for five more minutes. Nothing but a final resort- she didn’t keep the window open, anyways. Stunk up the whole room to high hell and back. Four hundred square feet and a locked door that Bob had keys to. Sophie oscillated between tucking herself into the tightest corners of her hovel and spending as little time as possible in there. With the streets too obvious and no home to open its doors to her, she lurked in the back alley. Breathed in the rot and leant against the brick wall. A sketchbook propped by her knees and a pencil tracing absent shapes on the paper. When the mood struck her, she drew rabbits. Sometimes, a dog would join her. It’d taken her a week and a half to realize it was the same one since it was nothing but a pair of wet eyes staring at her from the alleyway entrance. Scared her half to death when she first spotted it, though she got her immediate revenge- the dog darted off at her swear and did not reappear for three days. It took a week of leaving dumpster scraps on little pads of cling wrap at the same place it would appear to stare for it to get comfortable enough to take a step closer. Each day with the meal placed a bit further in and eventually it was close enough to make out details. A pointy-eared mutt with white fur made gray by the filth of life, yellowed teeth and wide eyes that never left her. With its head lowered and ears still swiveled in her direction, it looked like a wolf tearing chunks from a deer. (Sophie in the shape of her fears again. The stranger slowly luring in the defenseless, the man at the back of the alleyway-throat waiting to devour its prey whole. She wanted nothing from the dog but a better look and the knowledge that it was eating something, but she still placed herself in that role. A knife she’d swiped while washing dishes and usually kept in her room laid bare on the dirty concrete and within reach. Just in case. Never for the skinny stray, but still- When her eyes caught on it, with the dog close enough to touch yet too shy to allow it, Sophie cringed from every single thought in her head. The intrusive, the frightened, and the disgusted. She became nothing but a hollow shadow, and she did not meet the dog’s eyes. She didn’t want a fight. She didn’t.) Two months in and the dog stayed after finishing its meal for the first time. Laid down at her feet and watched her expectantly. A shudder ran down its entire body, a roll of meat and fur with the ribs still prominent under it all, when she set a tentative hand on its side, but it did not snap its teeth at her. Each time she raised her hand up to pet it again, the same shiver. Six months total and it pressed up close to Sophie each chance it got. Pushed its nose into the sketchbook and snuffled away at any newly thrifted clothes. A paw on her knees, its weight leveraged up so it could try licking at her face. Sophie would push it away, and it would not flinch from her hands as it once did. Even let her tie a red bandana around its neck- no room in her apartment and no possible way Bob would ever let her take it in, but still a significant enough gesture. No collar, but a sign of love. (She loved it. Even worse, the stray loved her. The Brighton mark of Cain.) On her sketchbook pages, a little wisp of a dog. Once, a new showstopper. Señor Perrito the vaquero. A nice duster and spinning spurs. Add a bit of fun and adventure to the cast. Papa would’ve liked him, but Edd would’ve loved him. Would’ve gotten the whole of Bon’s Burgers on board through the wonder of pester power. Sophie couldn’t name the dog, but she could feed it. Try to go along with its more playful moods, thrift store socks for tug-of-war and a stick scavenged during one of her rare walks to toss around. A point of peace most evenings. She knew it would not bite her, and she hoped it knew she would not do so either. The dog tended towards silence beyond the occasional rough yelp when excited and low grumbles during tug-of-war, and it typically came after the sun had set. Little chance for Bob to notice it, an early sleeper when alone and too distracted to hear when guests were over. He was fearless in a way that Sophie could not comprehend. Three nights a week he would have friends over for dinner, and Sophie would be kept up for hours as their hooves tapped on the ceiling above her bed. Laughter oozing from the popcorn ceiling, indistinct chatter seeping into her ears. The hours stretched and strained- a singular goodbye into another half hour of talk, a sit down for tea into an invitation to stay. (Sophie had never seen the apartment above her own, but it was easy enough to sculpt it in her mind. The front door beyond her lair, the kitchen sink a blade hanging over her head when she went to sleep. She could hear the pipes sing and the water rush- a leak for too long and it might come crashing down and split her skull like a watermelon. She'd had a few nightmares of that variety. Bob’s world breaking into her own, always to violent ends. He hadn’t ever been anything but nice and still her mind writhed. When it did not terrify, it was exhausting.) At least once a month, Bob would entrust Sophie with the grand duty of house sitting and take off for his own weekend of loafing about another person’s home. Friends or family, Sophie never asked. Her future killer up until the moment the door was locked up behind him and the lights of his car fading into the evening, then her singular shield abandoning her to every single person peering through the windows and straining their breath through grinning teeth. Each room of the butcher shop an open mouth, every angle poised to cut into her- Sophie could feel breath on the back of her neck and eyes upon every soft and vulnerable part of her body. Bob’s car barked and spluttered. Was impossible to miss it settling in one of three parking spots outside the shop. The second departure of the third month, Sophie’s resolve cracked and she spent fifteen minutes half-in and half-out of dry storage waving around a flank steak too old to sell off to try and tempt the dog inside. It did so, though reluctant. Legs tensed with every step into the unfamiliar environment, an unwillingness to stray from the center of the room. Still, it ate. Licked its chops and dared enough movement to put it at Sophie’s feet, nose shoved into offered hand and ears pressed back at the first pet. Its eyes cast upon the empty yawn of the store without excess anxiety once at her side, its ears still despite the terror that convinced Sophie of danger. A night spent without sleep and lit only by what moonlight slipped in through the open door. Even as the dog eased into the new environment and settled to a light sleep, Sophie kept her hands carding through the rough fur. Tufts that sprouted up beneath the more regular plane and pulled out in clumps without any real pressure, a pile forming that she would have to remember to sweep up in the morning. When her eyes began to stray towards the gap of the door and her mind towards the gruesome, a hand pressed close to the dog’s snout. A puff of humid warmth upon her fingers or a disgruntled huff as it blinked awake, either acted as an effective enough calmative. Surely nobody could avoid its gaze. Untold years scrounging out life on the streets, the dog must’ve had instincts honed to a fine and silvered point. A needled drive to survive. (Its spine ran along the length of her thigh. Every breath and every sleepy sigh pressed the nubs of vertebrae into her skin. Each shiver met by another in kind, warmth traded for warmth. So close to her, it could be another body between Sophie and death. A five second stall as the man wrestled for its throat and Sophie rushed for the knives, a singular moment to prepare for the futile. His hands too slicked with blood to grapple, his eyes lit with a hunger that Sophie could never summon up. Steel through her stomach, teeth through her fingers, a killer come calling five years too late. The thought made her feel sick. Made her fingers weave in tighter to the dog’s ruff, as if she could anchor the both of them to a singular point in time. Five more seconds of terror- she didn’t want that. Not at that price.) After that night, Sophie would lure the dog into the shop whenever Bob left for the night. No sleep in return for the only innocent company she knew of, hours spent keeping a silent vigil at the backdoor. Closing it would trap the dog in with her, but leaving it unattended would kill them both. No other choice but the one she made. Bob left for four days at the end of the first month. The morning of the second, Sophie dragged herself from the stifled dark of her room and into town. No chair good enough to jam her door with and no real resolve for bloodshed if it were to come for it, she settled on the idea of buying a new lock for her door. One only she had the key for. (Wouldn’t do much against a shotgun, but her nightmares were far more intimate. Fingers interlocking over her throat, a singular flash of steel as the claw hammer swung for her face. The only violence she’d ever been exposed to Molly’s tantrums as a baby and the silver screen, guns still possessed an alien quality to them which no other weapon did. The click of a round chambered, the frozen moment before the trigger was squeezed, what was it compared to the face and the eyes of a killer close enough to feel its breath?) Papa had let her go to the hardware store with Susan a number of times. Right along Main and nestled between the sidewalk and a record shop. Smaller than its competitor, the aisles cramped and the growl of life deafened. No loudspeakers for the latest hits to croon through. Lax managers and cashiers who were not pressured into small talk. Susan, devoid of that mock-secretive tone adults loved to take on in order to indulge children, had told her those were the exact reasons she preferred Grand River Hardware to any chain store in Brighton. An hour spent staring up at socket wrenches as Susan tested them against the latest specialty bolt, an overpriced and stale bag of peach rings her unnecessary reward for such patience. It was a world that Sophie didn’t understand, but that didn’t stop the pleasure of company that came with listening to Molly’s latest fantasy either. Time spent with family, no matter how confusing, was worth it. Bells at the door when she pushed it open. Sophie was committed to this deviation from the everyday-survival. She did not recognize the man at the counter. Uniform cap pulled low over the eyes, attention taken with the magazine in his eyes. A single glance up and a hand held raised in greeting, then back down again. Good. Good, good, good. Less interaction made the danger of change less real. Blue ink on Sophie’s palm: DEADBOLT LOCK FLAT SCREWDRIVER SCREWS She worried that fear would leave her stupid enough to forget such a short list. Go walking out of the store with a hammer meant to crack skulls and bolt cutters to snip fingers. Self defense, officer. Hide the fingerprints away and obfuscate the trail. Nobody would believe her if she survived. A matter of simple, animal survival. (Blood and guts seeping into every corner of her mind. Cut open a pig and finally jolt awake when the organs didn’t match what she’d been expecting. Cops would bury dead pigs in order to train their dogs how to sniff out human corpses, but the two were not interchangeable. Freshman year anatomy dropped after Sophie was taken into foster care, but she could still pick out the differences between pig hearts and man hearts. One a delicacy meat that they were lucky to sell at all throughout the week, the other what Sophie was beginning to fear she was missing from her own chest. Pervasive and impossible to tune out. Every thought of her’s was shadowed by a grim terror. Washing her hands, wondering if it was some dog that couldn’t bridge the gap between pig and man who had failed to sniff out her family’s corpses. Picking her way through the aisles of Grand River Hardware, choking on the thought of surviving the violence coming for her and being forced to stumble forth, once more, in the aftermath.) The body would have to go in the dumpster if the killer hadn’t been prepared to bury Sophie himself. A parade of electrical switches and plugs, rainbow wires winking at her from behind plastic faces. Fine copper that would prick Susan’s fingers and draw mosquito-blood. The blood could be cleaned the same exact way Sophie closed out each of her shifts. A stranger’s hand attached to her own arm, shaky fingers threading through stranger’s hair. Catching on her own knots, gliding overtop stranger’s ear. Her body in pieces. Hacksaw. Wood ax. A Phillips-head driven straight through her eye, chipped on the socket and forced into the sick tumor of her brain. Sole eye darts. Blue ink. One blink, then two. In front of her, a great expanse of screwdrivers. Two eyes, still secure in her skull. A hand tentatively pulled away from her head, then pressed to the bone of her eye socket. Fingers driven in deep enough to leave no illusion: Sophie was getting worse. A singular break from her day-to-day and she was melting down over absolutely nothing. Straight up insane. Brains did not function the way her’s did- her brain did not function this way before. Something was broken inside, something she couldn’t hope to fix but could try to appease. A new lock on her door so kindhearted Bobby Minard couldn’t let himself in and smother her to death with her own pillow. A goddamn flathead screwdriver so she could take the old lock out at all. Screwdriver. Cheapest on the wall, red plastic handle. Charles had worked the brains while Susan worked the bodies, but the two were good enough friends that there was bleedover. Nudged into the workshop with a spare coffee and a few pleasantries. An easy smile Sophie’s way. He’d had a set of tools himself that Susan would pilfer through regularly, a flathead that mirrored the one Sophie held now. Comfortable and willing in her grip. Easy enough to turn outwards, a single vicious stab- No. Sophie shut her eyes tight and ground her teeth together. Turned the screwdriver inwards and pressed it to her thigh. Hard enough for the pain to interrupt the bloody backslide into panic. No more of that, please no more. The lights buzzed above and the store breathed all around, air conditioning prickling against her exposed skin. The shelving hid her away from the cashier and the sun shone bright through the glass fronting of the store. Nobody but the two of them, no threat except the same. Thin breath through grit teeth. A step away from the screwdrivers. The deadbolts hid an aisle to the left. Sophie stood before them for two minutes before her patience ran out and she grabbed the cheapest one that didn’t look like it would immediately give in against an assault. She didn’t understand the packaging, wasn’t able to discern the best out of the five brands and the most affordable for what they were offering, and the struggle to do so just made her more frustrated. Stupid with anxiety, brain reduced to the most base of operations in order to keep her alive. It would have to do. Dulled gold and her own funhouse-face blinking up at her. A wretched twist of the reflection’s expression, Sophie unable to maintain eye contact with even herself for more than a second. She hungered for the cold security of her room, four walls pressing in tight enough to still her heart, every groove already traced over by frightened fingers. Comfort and regularity, warded only by the cashier. The lock set came prepackaged with four flathead screws. Little mercies. The cashier did not look up at her approach initially. Gave Sophie enough time to stare him down as he finished up whatever article had captured him so- name of Chuck and position of manager according to his nametag, wrinkled uniform shirt, nails bit short- before shutting the magazine with a soft sigh. A forced smile and a script rolled out. “Did you find everything alright today?” “Yeah.” It came out rough and low. More base sound than a proper word. Sophie placed the two products on the counter, then tucked her hands close to her chest and away from Cashier Chuck’s own. One lock set with deadbolt and a plastic-handle flathead screwdriver. Underneath them, sparse crumbs and a laminated mat laying out the differences between pipe fittings. He took a moment to add them up, scribbling the prices down on a notepad and squinting through the math, then flashed teeth up at her in an ill-kept snarl. “Righty. That’ll be fifteen thirty seven.” Goddamn. Sophie dug out the cash- a ten and a five, a quarter, a dime, and two pennies- and handed it over. Dropped the change on the counter, rather than his waiting hand, to keep her fingers as far as they could get. Any cost for safety and all, but she still cringed over it. Roundabout twenty percent of her rent, just so her brain would stop convincing her that every night was going to be her last. “Thank you,” Cashier Chuck, eyes on nothing but the count, “For shopping with us today.” A ching! from the register as it popped open, a chunk! when he pushed it back with his hip. “Have a wonderful day,” Then, a raise in tone from the grooves of the old script, “And feel free to grab a pop on your way out.” It’s poisoned. Popped the cap and dusted rat killer in there. Shook it up and made sure it was all dissolved before gluing it back together. Sophie wrapped a hand around the lock set and squeezed. Plastic packaging into the meat of her palm. Pain the only tether to reality as her thoughts began to chug down the same worn tracks. Some sort of emetic. Tinting the soda baby-blue and hungry to destroy her liver in only two hours. Total shutdown. Corpse found on the bed two days later. “Huh?” “A pop.” He nodded to the clear-front fridge by the entrance. Coke, Dr. Pepper, and Sprite winked back. “On the house. Just don’t tell anyone about it, you know?” The last drink of your life and it’s going to be a flat sugar-free. Brighton’s second best serial killer, sitting right in front of you and trying to be your friend. Her mouth opened. Screwdriver in your hand still. Jugular on clear display, but you’ve no clue what he could have on him. Took a moment to summon up anything but a panicked accusation. “Okay.” Killer Chuck hmm-ed at that, attention already taken by the magazine he’d been paging through when she stepped in, and Sophie took a step back still facing him. A single twitch of the lip, a hand brought up to scratch at the stubble there. Sloped shoulders and total disinterest in the world outside his two foot bubble. The cover had one of those new Mustangs on it, boxed in with gaudy graphics and bold claims. A new class of small car. Grease underneath his fingertips and smudges on the brim of his cap. No peeking over the magazine and under the cap to make sure she grabbed her death, nothing but boredom lapping back in. Sophie took another step, half turned with the lock set already shoved into a coat pocket. Another, the screwdriver clutched in hand and pressed flat against the length of her arm so he couldn’t see it. Far worse improvised weapons she could have. The next with her back fully turned. Chucky did not make a move. Didn’t even shift in his chair when she made it to the fridge and yanked it open. Glass bottles rattled on metal grating with the force of it. The front the most obvious choice, but the back the go-to for people wanting fresh goods. Sophie’s hand hovered over a Sprite, then darted to a Coke tucked into the second row. Her initial test of the twist-cap revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A surreptitious glance back at the cashier assured her privacy- another flipped page, the magazine held at a diagonal to better squint at a two-page spread- and Sophie took the chance to shake it hard. Fizzed up proper, didn’t settle down faster than it ought to. The bottle cold against her body when she slid it into her empty coat pocket, the ring of the door-bells drawing her shoulders up sharp. Nothing stopped her. The Coke ended up in the dumpster the instant Sophie made it back to Minard Meats. Placed real gentle into the corner just in case tossing it in would crack it open and leak poison out into the alley where the midnight mutt could lick it up. It was just starting to grow comfortable around her, no longer flinching away from the free meals at every shift and shuffle of hers. Sophie was planning on sneaking a metal tray from the kitchen to act as water bowl that night. Bob ended up coming back safe and sound, despite what Sophie had convinced herself of on the morning of her fourth day alone. Gave her enough time to stew in the realization that she’d bought too large a screwdriver to fit into the little screws holding together her door lock. Complete waste of money, complete waste of all that terror pushed through. Fear, then humiliation, then anger, all leveled out to a numb hate by the time Bob’s car came sputtering up to the parking lot. The lock set hidden in her suitcase and the screwdriver thrown into the dumpster in a fit of frustration, there was no evidence of her attempt. Wouldn’t survive through anything but sheer dumb luck. A customer complained about Sophie for the first time the next day. Busy enough that Bobby summoned her forth from her cave, comfortable and dark, and too hurried for any interaction to register beyond the barebones in her brain. Base pleasantry, transaction, handwash. Could’ve just packed the orders that Bob rang up if he didn’t insist upon utilizing both cash registers- better appearances, worse efficiency. A turn to the sink and then another back to stare down a customer as Sophie waited for him to get the hell out of the way. Rude to keep her back to them. Unsanitary to touch anything at all. Apparently, she’d been too short with one of the regulars. She called in with her complaint two hours after the fact just because she knew the store would be cleared out and Bob’s attention nowhere but it. That new girl is just awful, truly awful, she’d said. Absolutely no manners! In all my years, I’ve never received such poor service! Bob had knocked on the backroom door to get Sophie’s attention before telling her about the complaint. Direct quotes. Eyes shuttered with an emotion she could not make out. A pause, and then he left. No demands, no reprimands, just an ugly weight on Sophie’s chest. What the hell was she supposed to do with that? She did not sleep that night. Her fingers trembled with the effort to pry them from the knife’s handle when the sun began to nip at her bedding. (A face to the killer, for once. Bob’d been a butcher for longer than Sophie’d been alive. He still knew how to work the knives, and Sophie hadn’t replaced her room lock. A quiet key late in the after hours, a shadow darker than the night sliding across her bedroom as it slid open. Hateful eyes, damp breath. The arms when she raised them in futile self-defense, the stomach upon her recoil, the skull when she collapsed. Boot driven into her side, fingers prying her face apart into chunks. Nobody would notice her disappearance. Nobody would wake with the knowledge that they were now alone in the world. Pig intestine hungry to be filled once more. Sausage casings stretched wide. That was too cliché, far too horror movie for reality, but the visual alone made Sophie feel ill. Knees pressed tight to her body, free hand busy hunting after the sharp relief of clawed pain. Absurd in any other context, but she’d seen enough of them to fill her mind with awful imagery. She simply sat there, awaiting the meathook and the cleaver.) The next time Bob took off for the weekend, Sophie was tearing out of the butcher shop the instant she was sure he would not see. Too late for the sunrise, too early for most to be out on the streets yet. Hands fisted deep in her coat pockets, the path taken hardly one of conscious thought. A week straight spent positive that her boss was seconds away from killing her left Sophie nearly unmoored- cutting corpses on muscle memory, stealing sleep only in irregular spurts, the constant weighing of the virtues of preemptive self defense- and it was only in the soft embrace of the morning fog which obscured Brighton enough to make it a stranger that Sophie was able to properly breath. Too much terror and it broke into complete absurdist surreality. Her boss was going to kill her over a customer complaint, but she could set it all right. Just had to buy the right screwdriver. He’d try the lock, realize he’d been outsmarted, and then settle down. Simple as. There was a box truck parked alongside Grand River Hardware, mouth open and ramps meant for dolly carts braced upon the concrete. The bells rang loud when she pushed open the door, and she made it only two steps inside before a voice barked at her. “Store’s closed, bud-” Teeth snapped the last word in half. In the middle of the central aisle and with clipboard in hand, the killer cashier from two weeks ago. The voice was harsh enough to jolt Sophie back to reality, though not enough to kick her heart into gear. Beside Chuck, an unpacked stack of boxes. Part numbers printed on the sides, a clear gap in product in front of him. A single glance around the store- more boxes scattered about, only one row of fluorescents shining down- and then another outside- a man emerging from the box truck to cart down a small stack of soda bottles still secured together by plastic wrapping- and realization had her hunching away in abject embarrassment. She’d just walked in on stock-day with her brain lagging five miles behind. Chuck spoke up in her own silence. “S’alright, kid. I must’ve forgotten to flip the sign the right way around.” The rough scrape of his pen across paper. Must be taking inventory as well. “You need help finding anything?” No anger, no frustration. A disinterest so clear that even Sophie could make it out. A chime as the truck-worker shouldered his way in to deposit the pop, another as he stepped out for more. A witness. The words felt lame and incomplete when she forced them from her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t realize…” “No worries.” Chuck shuffled two steps to the side, then leaned down to squint at a stack of screw boxes. “It’s gonna take me a moment to get this all sorted since Tammy called out.” A bite of annoyance there, but nothing more. “I can help you right now though, if you want.” Well. Sophie was here for a reason. So much energy spent so long on such an acute fear had left her with little to expend towards suspicions of underhand plots at the moment. Cashier Chuck had no customer complaints to kill her over. “Sure. Just a smaller- a small flathead screwdriver.” “Gotcha. Head over to the counter.” One more moment spent scribbling numbers, then he took off down the aisles, weaving around stacked product and sparing a few disapproving glances. A rattle as the truck-worker came in and out again. Soft and quiet. The store bore the rhythm with easy familiarity. Chuck returned soon enough with a small selection fanned out in his free hand, sliding behind the counter to show them off properly. “You came in a bit ago for one of those Hartford lock sets, right?” No pause for an answer. “This one,” transparent blue plastic handle, a narrow neck, “Is probably your best bet. Has a good grip on it as well.” Chuck hadn’t attempted to meet Sophie’s eyes throughout the entire interaction. Kept his own on his clipboard for the most part, only lazy glances away when it was necessary. Sophie clenched a fist in her coat pocket. A prickle of unease- why was this so easy? Crisp morning air filtering through the half-propped door, the twitch of Chuck’s free hand back towards his pen. Why a pen and not one of the screwdrivers to stab deep into the vulnerable organ meat? Sophie chewed at her cheek. Sharp enough for a burst of pain. No illumination, yet no rapid panic. She grunted, then forced actual words. “Okay. How much is it?” A flash of teeth. Rough smile, not a snarl. “Nothing. Figure the other screwdriver you bought must’ve been wrong, and that sucks enough already.” He set aside the remaining three, pushed the pretty blue across the counter towards Sophie. She blinked down at it. The anxiety ratcheted. Why was this inching towards pleasant? Dull fingers took it up in a hand faintly attached to her own body, and she regarded the grip distantly. She didn’t know enough about screwdrivers to discern the quality, but Chuck nodded in approval. “Oh.” The silver stem barely reflected the morning sun, but the transparent plastic held its warmth close. “Thank you.” Another smile. “You’re welcome. Feel free to grab another pop on your way out. Pass me one too.” There it was- yet the furthest her mood progressed was an indistinct discomfort. The other worker a conspirator, the poison injected through factory-packaging with a medical syringe, an immunity built up over years of carefully increased doses- she summoned it all forth easily enough, but it did not blare over every rational thought in the way her terrors so often did. When not overwhelming, Sophie was able to properly think them over. It was absurd, thriller flick bullshit. The question slipped before she could properly form it, emboldened by the most basic of human connection that didn’t have her fighting the urge to bite at her own fingers. “Why?” Poorly phrased, but Chuck understood it. A short hum as he turned his focus towards the small stock of nicotine behind the counter, clipboard back in hand. “My boss has been talking about stopping the Sunday shift indefinitely. I understand why- we don’t receive enough business to justify it and he’s got a kid on the way he needs to save up for- but it still annoys me. It’s a good shift.” A few more scribbles across his inventory sheet. “A couple free pops a day doesn’t affect margins, but it makes me feel better. Bit petty, but whatever.” Chuck shrugged. Peeled his lips back into an ugly facsimile of a smile, all the frustration of it directed downwards. “This place wouldn’t even run without me around, anyways.” Sophie cutting just a bit more than fat from the carcass, tossing it with undue scorn into the waste bin. Crumpling the paper wrapping of orders before handing them over to customers, refusing to bark out her greetings when Bob abandoned her to the counter. No real consequence on its own, but plenty of potential for the boss to notice and take up undue umbrage over it. Just petty enough to get on through the day. She spoke again without intention, but with complete understanding. “I get that. Screw your boss.” Then, with a finger pointed towards them, “Which one do you want?” “Dr. Pepper’s fine. Thanks.” Chuck took the soda with an appreciative nod, and he still did not raise his eyes up towards her own. He popped it immediately, a short swig before he spoke again. “Have a good day, yeah?” “You too.” Familiar words, programmed response, but Sophie made an effort for a little more. “Thank you.” She raised the screwdriver and Sprite both in one hand when she said it, her smile the same quick flash of teeth as Chuck’s. It got mirrored back at her, and Sophie clenched her free hand around an emotion so neglected that she’d forgotten the word for it at all. A lightness that she’d felt before, held between her hand and Susan’s own in the very aisles of the store. Familiarity on a level beyond most. The chill of the morning, no longer obstructed by any building, chased that infinitesimal sensation off with haste. A half minute of walking and Sophie was able to tell herself, without any stutter, that her mind had just tripped up. In a different direction than the usual terror, but still something with very little to root it down. Desperate for survival and recognition both. Still, the Sprite did not go in the dumpster. Still, the little screwdriver was put to work on her room’s lock. Sophie pulled out the pop only in the evening, after properly assured that she’d installed the new deadbolt lock properly and wasn’t about to bar herself either in or out of the room accidentally, and only for when she settled down in the alleyway to feed the mutt. It was the first night it willingly approached her, lying at her feet after finishing its meal and bearing her gentle pets with patience, and that same careworn sensation shivered up her spine.