They call her. She hears them and her cheeks burn hot.
She inches a flimsy Glowwhitened net up with trembling forefinger and peers at number eleven. Hedge needs a trim. Broken light fixed at thirteen—finally. Three’s gate needs rehanging. Compost all over the drive at seven. Blinds still closed at nine, and the bin’s not out again at five.
Her breath comes short and fast. She thinks of her dad not wanting to trouble the boiler guy because he needed a holiday too. Growing sleepy, not alarmed when the shivering stopped.
Frozen milk.
Gaping letterbox.
The mastiff strides from number four—growling—growing larger and longer—as big as a hearse—teeth bared—eyes at her window—glowering.
She stares it down.
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction and others.
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