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"In case of what?"

She shrugs.

"I'll know when you do."

I stare at her.

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

I shake my head, laughing.

"You're lucky your tea is excellent."

"And you're lucky you like me."

"I tolerate you."

"Liar."

I pay for my tea, sling my satchel over one shoulder, and step back outside.

The temperature has dropped. Not gradually. Suddenly. I stop. The forecast this morning had been clear. Cold, but clear.

People notice it too. Tourists who had been carrying jackets over their arms suddenly pull them on. A father takes hats from a backpack and puts them on his children. A gust of wind races down Main Street hard enough to send orange and scarlet leaves spinning around pedestrians' ankles.

The decorations seem different now. Not cheerful. Watching. Paper skeletons twist on porch railings. Carved pumpkins grin beneath darkening skies. Black crows gather on rooftops. I don't remember seeing so many before. Probably because I wasn't looking.

A horse-drawn carriage rolls past carrying visitors on a historical tour. The driver wears a long black cloak and colonial tricorn hat.

Someone behind me laughs.

"Hope the Headless Horseman doesn't charge extra."

The group laughs. Normal. Everything is normal. I tell myself that several times. Then I walk home.

The house appears between the trees as I reach the end of the road. The porch light is still on. I know I turned it off. I stop walking.

The light flickers once. Then settle. I stare at it. A logical explanation appears immediately.

Old wiring. Faulty timer. Something simple. Something normal. I continue up the path.

"Very funny," I call toward the house.

The wind moves through the trees. The porch swing rocks once. I choose not to notice. My phone vibrates. A notification from Hollow Truths.

Your scheduled post has exceeded projected engagement.

Of course it has. Nothing performs better online than betrayal.

I glance through the comments while walking. Thousands more have appeared in less than thirty minutes. People dissect complete strangers with startling confidence.

Some offer compassion. Most offer judgment. I pause at the edge of the porch while typing a moderator response. Movement catches my eye.

Across the road, near the tree line, stands a little girl wearing a faded red raincoat. Maybe eight years old. She isn't holding anyone's hand. She isn't looking toward the road. She's looking directly at me.

Odd.