I roll under the impossibly low bed frame, shoulder screaming. Under the trailer with the spider and the rats, eye blazing. I am the roach who folds flat into the cracks. I pray that the man in the Blue House is confused. That he won’t drag his gun under the bed. That he will think I somehow slipped past him. When I hear the first rustle out in the hall, I scramble quietly. Until I slam the bathroom door.
WHAT? They were in a BEDROOM, not 30 yards apart in a stocked warehouse that suddenly went dark. Goddamn I hate this.
