“They’re monsters. Everywhere,” she said. “Macey, it’s Family Day. They’re only kids, high on sugar—” “No, Spence, they’re monsters. Literally. They’re eating the customers.” I looked at her. “They’re not eating the customers,” I said. “They are! Jesus Spence, what do you think that noise is? People are screaming.” And she was right, they were. Or at least they were at that moment. As soon as she told me what I was supposed to be hearing, I heard it. The clatter and conversation of the restaurant lunch rush was immediately replaced with the worst kind of animal noises; the smell of baked pizza
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