it must have come from Mrs. Jacobs’s hand as she’d stepped over Ana to get out of her apartment. Ana’s hand came away covered in some sort of slimy, gooey gel. It was appallingly sticky. Like honeyed cement. Up close in the light, it looked like it squirmed on her fingertips and she thought of that ragged, peeled-away flesh on Mrs. Jacobs’s leg. “Be right back, Baby Bird,” she muttered, wiping her hand on her shirt.
