After hiding the gun in my sweatpants, I walk around the corner to the crappy fast food restaurant and fill up on the greasiest burger and the largest fry my shrunken stomach can handle. I don’t stay there long, partly because I look like shit with my unwashed hair and nearly four-day-old clothes, and in general, it’s unwise to be away from the apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m returning with a refreshing soda. And of course, I double check a few times to make sure there’s no sign of life.
I don’t see anything as I approach the door to the apartment. No mice, and the paper I put at the bottom of the door is still in place.
The door creaks as I push it open and releases a rattle when it slams closed. I’m bolting the hell out of this door, and then I’m going to sit my ass in the chair and look out the window until—
“Welcome home.”