“Help,” the man says again. Then, he vomits all over the thorn bushes I have planted under the windows. Shit. I open the door a crack and peer out at him. When he doesn’t immediately spring through my door, I start to suspect it’s not a trap after all and he really is sick. “What’s wrong?” I bark at him. “Who are you? Why are you here?” He groans, rolling onto his back. “Water.” Frowning, I clutch my bat and back up a few steps. “If I get you a drink, will you leave?” The stranger doesn’t respond, just makes more pitiful noises. And maybe I really am a fool, because he sounds miserable. If I
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