The next day was cleaning day.

  Frau Schwarzenegger looked different today. Her long nails were bright yellow — almost lemon-colored. Her lips were still a bold, uncompromising red. She was wearing a white faux-fur coat that made her look even larger and more imposing. Altogether, she resembled a festive polar bear who had decided to take up housekeeping.

  She stopped in the doorway, looked around, and gave a satisfied hum.

  "Is it working?" she asked. "The repellent."

  I said that no sweet-eaters had been spotted since.

  "They're not rats," she added confidently. "I said that from the beginning. I saw a notice on the street. People are panicking, but it's not rats."

  She said it with such calm authority, as if she had personally interrogated every rodent in the neighborhood.

  Her mood was unexpectedly good. She even smiled a couple of times — awkwardly, as if her face wasn't quite sure what it was supposed to do. But it was a smile.

  "The house is beautifully decorated," she said as she walked in. "Sehr gemütlich. Very."

  It pleased me.

  She changed clothes and began cleaning, softly whistling.

  The house filled again with familiar sounds: footsteps, running water, the rustle of cloths. Everything felt calm, proper, in its place, and somehow lighter.

  A little later, a message came from Jo-Jo.

  He suggested going together to buy Christmas trees. A friend of his had good prices — it was his business. Cut trees and ones in pots. "Almost for free," as he wrote. We agreed to go in a few days and check in closer to the time.

  I replied and, after a second's thought, added that I had met Alexander — that I'd gotten a good impression.

  I sent the message and set my phone aside.

  I had just laid out my paints.

  The canvas was already on the easel, the brush in my hand, and I had caught that rare state when the line knows where it wants to go by itself — when suddenly there was an explosion, and a scream.

  Loud.

  Sharp.

  From the street.

  I flinched, dropped the brush, and ran to the window.

  At first I couldn't understand anything. Just noise. Voices. Movement at the end of the street.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  "What was that bang? Who screamed?" Frau Schwarzenegger called anxiously from the hallway.

  "I don't know," I said. "I'll go look."

  We both stepped onto the porch.

  The street was unusually loud. People were coming out of their houses — some in jackets, some throwing on whatever they could find. A crowd was gathering at the far end.

  "Go," Frau Schwarzenegger said. "I'll keep cleaning. Then you can tell me."

  She said it like she was in charge of order and I was the reporter.

  I threw on my clothes and headed toward the noise.

  More and more people were arriving.

  Someone said the news were coming.

  The street, which that morning had been quiet and almost festive, suddenly turned into chaos: sirens, overlapping voices, people rushing in from all sides, phone flashes. Some were filming, some calling, some just standing with hands pressed to their chests.

  There was a hole in the asphalt.

  Jagged, torn open, as if the ground had been ripped apart from within. The edges were blackened, partly melted, the asphalt swollen and frozen in waves. Thin gray smoke rose from the depth, carrying a metallic smell. Pebbles were scattered around like after an impact.

  "A meteorite," someone said confidently.

  "Definitely," others chimed in. "From the sky."

  "I saw it on TV," a man in a hat said. "Exactly like that."

  The word spread quickly.

  Meteorite.

  A convenient word. Almost comforting.

  Then I saw Phil.

  He had come out too — far too quickly for his condition. His jacket hung open, his scarf thrown on carelessly. He walked heavily, swaying, as if each step took effort. He had gained a lot of weight — not just put on a little, but become almost massive, and now it was impossible not to notice.

  "Phil..." I said, but he was already moving toward the hole.

  "I've never seen anything like this," he said, staring at the asphalt. "Never."

  Neighbors murmured:

  "Did you hear the explosion?"

  "I thought it was a transformer."

  "No, that wasn't electricity..."

  "I'm telling you, a meteorite."

  Phil stepped too close.

  And then a sharp hiss burst out of the hole — loud, angry, as if something inside had suddenly come alive. Sparks shot upward, blinding orange and hot. Phil jerked back, nearly stumbling — another second and he would have been burned.

  "Phil!" I shouted.

  And then he appeared.

  Alexander.

  As if materializing out of thin air — fast, focused, visibly alarmed yet strangely calm within it. He was instantly beside Phil, gripping his elbow firmly.

  "No," he said sharply. "You can't come out like this. You're almost undressed. It's dangerous."

  He spoke quietly, but in a way that made Phil stop at once.

  "I just wanted to look—" Phil began.

  "You'll look later," Alexander interrupted more gently. "Now — home."

  He practically turned Phil around, shielding him with his body, and guided him back. Phil walked heavily, his breathing loud. I limped beside them.

  Alexander turned his head toward me.

  "How is your leg?" he asked softly. "After yesterday... you really shouldn't have come out today."

  There was no reproach in his voice — almost concern instead, that strange mix of worry and attention, as if it truly mattered to him.

  "It's bearable," I said. "It's coming along with me."

  "That's already good," he said. "I wouldn't want you testing winter's strength again."

  It sounded almost like a joke, but his eyes were serious.

  He nodded toward their house.

  "Come in for a bit. Warm up. Tea, quiet... today the street clearly isn't for walks."

  I was about to answer when I remembered.

  "I can't. I have cleaning."

  I gestured toward my house.

  Frau Schwarzenegger stood in the doorway.

  In her white faux-fur coat she looked like a large polar bear who had stepped out to inspect the territory. She was staring straight at us, her hand thoughtfully propping up her chin.

  Alexander looked at her, then at me, and rubbed his own chin — a brief, distracted gesture.

  "Then another time," he said calmly. "Not today, then."

  It sounded temporary, not final.

  Suddenly I felt I had to say what had been circling in my head:

  "Sorry for interfering... but it's hard for Phil to walk. He's gained a lot of weight. Are you sure the treatment is going right?"

  Phil snorted before Alexander could answer.

  "I just need to eat less," he said with a grin. "That's all. The common-sense diet."

  "See?" he added. "Diagnosis made."

  I couldn't help smiling.

  Alexander looked at Phil carefully — without smiling, but calmly.

  "We're watching it," he said. "And we're not leaving Phil unattended."

  There was more worry in his voice than in his words.

  Noise rose again from the street — people still arguing about the meteorite, still filming the hole.

  Phil suddenly raised his hand.

  "High five?" he said with a childish grin.

  I automatically slapped his palm.

  "Take care," I said.

  "You too," he replied, snorting softly. "And the leg."

  Alexander was already by the door. He nodded to Phil, then turned to me.

  "See you, Molly," he said.

  He looked straight into my eyes — not a second longer than necessary, not a second less. Exactly long enough for it not to be accidental. There was something familiar in that look, and at the same time unsettling — like a memory you can't quite catch.

  "See you," I answered.

  He smiled calmly and closed the door.

  I stood there for a moment longer.

  Why does he remind me of someone so much...