The truck had crept after her, dragging its black bulk, its driver hidden behind the rise of the steering wheel and lifted high above her by the grotesquely huge tires. Thisbe tried to shake it, even darting down two dark alleyways and past a bar with smoking catcallers loitering outside, but she failed to lose her pursuer.

How long had she been residing here now? Long enough to feel weary, yet not long enough to feel timeless. The only vagabond within its walls was her, despite what rumors may suggest. Warm bodies had trespassed many times, even entered the home, but never stayed. She made sure of that. One way or another, they were sent on their way as swiftly and softly as the breeze that made branches scratch and shutters rattle against the windows of this soulless place.

His boots, the soles already half melted and smooth, slick with grease, acted like ice skates across the red tile. He cleared the backhouse faster than an Olympic sprinter, the outsole of his boot hanging by a thread, flapping with each gargantuan stride. With a few huge leaps and a heavy slide, he put his left arm out for balance and braced his knees as he grabbed the door of the walk-in cooler with his free hand. Using the momentum, he flung the portal wide open and launched himself inside, straight from the 110-degree kitchen into the 30-degree cooler.