A Quiet Talk
Just before five, and Wil had the house looking about the way he wanted. The little one-story was quiet and unassuming, equally on the inside as without. It was getting old; floorboards weren’t so straight any more, the shutters needed painting, and his fridge ran more on hope than electricity. But it was clean, and comfortable, and warm.
He flicked the porch light on and then turned to survey the living room with a critical eye. A cushy old sofa with a blanket draped over the back sat comfortably in front of a low, dark wood coffee table. He’d put out a carafe of hot water with fixings for tea and coffee—since he’d forgotten which Kut preferred. And a box of Ritz crackers. It was the only human food he had at the time. Oh well.
Along the far wall a glass-front cabinet held an array of vintage audio equipment. He’d had to make sure they were all turned off so that they didn’t start transmitting his thoughts unintentionally. It would spook most folk for sure. Now the cabinet sat dark and quiet, reflecting bits of light from plastic wheels and little glass covers.
Wil moved to the kitchen to make sure the light was on, and then to the hall, at the end of which sat his bedroom and a single bathroom. That’s all there was to the little house. All tidy. He clicked the bathroom light on too. Good. Ready.
