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There’s a small animal lying on the welcome mat.

I can’t tell what it is at first. A rabbit maybe. Or a squirrel. It’s curled tightly on its side, unmoving. There’s no visible blood. No obvious injury. Just a limp body placed in the center of the mat.

I stare at it for too long.

It could be a coincidence. We’re in the woods. Things happen. A coyote might’ve dropped it. Maybe a hawk. Maybe it was sick. Maybe it died where it fell and it means nothing.

But the placement?—

It doesn’t feel like nothing.

I stand there, frozen, cataloging every possible explanation that doesn’t involve someone hunting me down. I try to convince myself I’m overreacting. Still, the unease builds.

I turn from the window and go to the door. My fingers hesitate over the lock, but I flip it open anyway and ease the door a few inches.

It’s a rabbit. Its eyes are open but it’s dead. Its position is too staged. Someone placed it there.

I close the door quickly and lock it again with shaking hands.

Mae hasn’t moved from the table. Her shoulders are relaxed, and her fingers are smudged with crayon wax. She’s safe.

I sit back down and pick up my book again, but I don’t turn the page.

I don’t call the guys either.

They’re on call. They can’t leave without cause. And what would I even say? That there’s a rabbit on the porch and I don’t like the way it’s lying there?

I don’t want to be the girl who jumps at shadows.

But all night, I watch the windows.

I check the locks multiple times before bed.

And even hours after Mae has fallen asleep, I’m still awake, listening for noises.

By morning, I’m even more convinced that I’m just being paranoid and it was just a strange but natural occurrence.

It happens just before they’re supposed to come home.

Mae is in her room playing with her stuffed animals. I’m standing at the sink rinsing a glass when I hear the distinct sound of glass breaking. It cuts through the stillness and sends panic straight into my bloodstream.

I don’t move for a full ten seconds. My hand is frozen mid-air, water still running from the faucet. Then I turn off the water and listen.

Nothing.

Just silence.

I dry my hands without looking down and step into the hallway. Mae’s door is cracked just the way she likes it. I can see her happily playing with her animals on her bed.

I backtrack into the kitchen and scan every window looking for broken glass. The view outside hasn’t changed. The porch is empty. The trees are still. But I know what I heard.

I grab the phone from the counter. My finger hovers over the screen, over Finn’s name. But I don't press it. I pace instead.

My feet move in a tight loop between the living room and the front door. I don’t open it. I don’t even peek out. I’m too scared of what I’ll find out there this time. I just keep walking, my fingers tight around the phone.

Tears sting behind my eyes.

Name five things I can see. Four I can feel. Three I can hear.