“Who’s watching the house?” “Them,” he said, sounding irritable, and shoved my shoulder, pointing me toward the street. I blinked. The door shut behind me, but I barely registered the sound of the bolts being thrown. On neighbors’ rooftops, on the mailboxes, in the trees, and even on top of the cars, at least fifty black vultures were perching, and every single one was staring fixedly at my mother’s house.
