48

I stare out the kitchen window, watching Marek and the stranger outside.

Marek has pulled the man's hood back, tearing the cloth from around his mouth, revealing his identity. From here I can't see the man's face, but I know I wouldn't know him anyway. The man sits on the steps of the porch, head bowed weakly as he holds a palm over the wound in his neck. Marek stands before him, twisting the rope intended for me in his hand.

Marek's presence alone has rendered the man passive. I can't hear what they are discussing, but at the beginning, it seemed awfully heated. Now it's calmed down, Marek's expression solemn as he listens intently to what the stranger has to say.