The thing that used to be Sharon shows no glint of recognition, and I wonder if it can hear me at all. Her external ears are gone, and as she approaches, bringing me as close to the crabs as I’ve been since the event happened a couple of months ago, I can see only the tiniest of orifices on the sides of her head. They appear almost reptilian, like those of an ashen crocodile, a comparison made more a propos by the cold blackness of her eyes.
But the thing seems to hear my words, giving a cock of its head, like a beagle who’s just been asked a question.
“I should have been here with you when it happened. And I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry for everything.” I pause, thinking of Naia. “Some of them things you never even knew about.”
It is guilt that has brought me here, to my home of fourteen years, by way of the refrigerated box truck that sits parked outside in my driveway, the engine running, my new companions—who are now only four in number—still screaming my name, warning me to leave. But I’ve made the decision to follow through on my plan, a plan I finalized on my way here and which sounded in my head something like this: if my wife was still here at our home, alive somehow, I would tell her everything, all about Naia and the affair, as well as the weeks I’d spent at the student union and later the diner. And then, once the plates stopped flying, I would try to convince her to come with us. She would hate me for a while, forever maybe, but she would be with me, under my protection. And alive.
