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I touch the bandage.

Oddly enough, I don’t see much blood.

The way she stitched me... it actually doesn’t seem terrible.

I shake my head. Jesus Christ. What the hell am I thinking?

A woman stitched me... on her couch.

I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

I think I’m a bit of both.

Fuck. This is a mess.

I hear her moving around in the kitchen. Cabinets open. A drawer slides shut. The microwave beeps.

She hums like she's baking cookies instead of harboring a wanted hitman.

Who stitches a strange man after watching a YouTube tutorial... then hums in the kitchen?

I've spent my life around dangerous people. Somehow, she's the one making me nervous.

I close my eyes. Maybe death would've been easier.

My eyes open again. I take in the room.

Warm amber light spills from candles throughout the room. Black lanterns, matte pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and tiny bats somehow make the place feel elegant instead of tacky. Her Halloween decorating skills are top-notch.

Let’s hope her stitching skills are, too.

A black throw blanket is folded neatly over the arm of the couch. Coffee table books are stacked with military precision beneath a pumpkin-shaped bowl of candy she apparently expects strangers to help themselves to.

Nothing's out of place.

Nothing's cheap.

The house is immaculate. Expensive. Lived in. Comfortable.

The exact opposite of every place I've called home.

From the kitchen comes the clink of ice against glass.

She's still humming.

I look toward the hallway.

A six-foot skeleton wears a knitted orange scarf.

Why does the skeleton have a scarf?

She moves into the room and sits on the couch beside me. “Here.” She holds out the glass. “Nice cold water. Make sure you sip slowly.”

I stare at her. “You didn’t put anything in it?”

“Ice cubes.” She nods encouragingly. “Go ahead.”

My eyes don’t leave her as I lift it and sniff. I don’t smell anything.