Page 156 of Rather: The Therapist

“The wedding?”

“I wo–”

Ding. Dong.

The doorbell interrupted her train of thought.

“Is that your door?”

“Uh– Yes. I’m not expecting anyone. Hold on, Mom.”

I lowered the phone and exited the call screen without hanging up. The camera app opened with a single tap. Darkness covered the camera in front of my home, yet the rest were crystal clear.

“Hello?” I put the phone back up to my ear.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“I’m going to call you back later, okay?”

“No you’re not,” she fussed, “Stay on the phone with me until you find out who is behind that door.”

“Okay.”

I hopped off the bed and into my closet where I grabbed a pair of sweats. I wasn’t one to wear them often, but for quick runs to the end of the driveway to sit the dumpster out or to the garage to retrieve something from my car they served their purpose.

I stuffed my gun in the waistline and headed downstairs. I could smell the day’s debris on my body as the wind from my speed picked up. Inside the kitchen, I twisted the knobs on the stove.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I grabbed the Tiger-striped firearm and concealed my collection by turning the knobs again.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Full speed ahead, I walked toward the front door. When I was close enough, I shouted the first order.

“State your name or I’m shooting through the glass. Fair warning, I do not miss!”

I waited for a response. The silence was frustrating.

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