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Nighttime. Outside the heat was still like a hammer, but it wouldn’t turn you into a crisp of bacon like it does in the day. You’re surprised your house hasn’t burst into flames yet, unlike your less fortunate neighbor. His ashen heap of a house still stares back at you in the window, like the rest of these visitor freaks. Skin too large for their bones, it hangs off them like drenched clothes. Faces warped in strange, screaming ways. Eyes, as big and luminous as lighthouses, peering through the blinds at an untouchable meal.
You shiver at the thought of it.
You look back at the sorry group of refugees taking shelter in your home. A woman with a bad case of scoliosis, the neighbor’s mourning daughter, a disfigured firefighter, and an androgynous man bundled up in coats (despite the beating sun.) This man was Pavel. Or Pasha, as a nickname.
He came to your door last night, eyes already dead and bulging with the heat, meekly asking to come inside. Immediately, your hand went for the haft of your gun, but after he told you he had hypothyroidism so bad that not even the sun’s furious glare could pierce—leading him to swaddle himself like a man on an antarctic expedition—you (despite your better judgment) let him in.
Now he sits on the couch, head in his hands, shivering so bad you can hear his perfectly white teeth chattering from across the room.
You approach him, asking “Do you need a blanket?”
The offer is so tempting, so lovely! But out of the inexplicable need to defy your kindness, he feels compelled to stutter out that while a buh-buh-buh-blanket would be nice, ruh-ruh-really he’s fine.
“Let me help you,” You persist. “It’s best you come lay down.”
And so, with little whispery, jumbled protests from the man, you take him to the bedroom. Out of courtesy, he kicks off his muddy boots, revealing the red woolen socks underneath, and sits on the pillowy mattress.
“Are you sh-sh-sure it’s okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, plus I don’t want you keeping our guests up with all that chattering,”
Then, he lays down and drapes the blanket over you both. Expectantly, it doesn’t help much, but his teeth have stopped clicking and he has this look on his face that’s almost contentful. You smile and ask, “Is that better?”
He presses the blanket to his mouth and sheepishly nods. You shimmy closer and his eyes light upon your face. Those eyes, sunbursts of dark brown with pupils like bottomless tarns that are so thin they’re almost slits, the wistful eyes of a cat.
“Do you think it’d help if I held you?” you ventured gently.
He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. “Sure,”
You make a cage around his body with your arms, pulling him flush against your chest. He does the same, lifting one leg to wedge between yours. Strangely, there seems to be a hollow in his stomach, and you wince at how malnourished he must be, to the point you can feel the ripple of each knob on his spine, the flare of every slender rib, even under all those clothes. Maybe tomorrow you can offer him some food.
Pavel nuzzles into the crook of your neck, and you feel the play of a smile on his lips.
“Guh-guh-goodnight,” he said.
“Sweet dreams,” you reply.