_60 seconds._

That’s all the text message says. I don’t recognize the number. When I reply with a _‘?’_, I see _Message Failed_ in tiny red letters. I try again, and the same _Message Failed_ alert appears.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I debate sending a third time. The message bothers me. _60 seconds? What does that mean? Who is this? Wrong number? Spam?_ Questions roll through my mind like clothes in a dryer tumbling over each other.

There’s a knock on the door. A voice calls from the other side, “Pizza.”

_I didn’t order pizza._

Cold sweat beads on my forehead. My body is suddenly alive with awareness. I note the back door in the kitchen, open slightly to let cool air into the house. The knives in the block on the counter are within arm’s reach; my fingers twitch to grab one. The house is quiet beyond the hum of the refrigerator. The forest, visible through the bank of windows behind the kitchen table, is still and green.

Wait. Something moves along the treeline. Several somethings.

_They’re coming._

The thought flashes through my mind not as a voice, but as the image of a text message on my phone. _60 seconds. They’re coming._

_ _

I grab a knife from the block and sprint for the back door. I hear shouts from the trees. They’re too far to reach me on foot but I feel rather than see the pressure of gun barrels pointing in my direction, with their black metal mouths yawning in expectant ‘_O_’s. Behind me, there’s a muffled crash. They’ve broken through the front door.

I run. I zigzag. I ignore the blood pounding in my ears and my muscles screaming with exertion. I have to get away. If they catch me, I’m a dead man.