He's quiet now. Every now and then he'll start back up and pound feebly at the door. John's shoved cotton in his ears as makeshift ear plugs, but I can't block him out. I can't chance that he'll say something that will convince me, and I won't be able to hear it. Something about my family.
He would have told us by now, if he really knew anything. But I can't tear myself away.
I fell asleep by the door last night. I probably will again tonight.
It's an awful lullaby.
"Let me in. Please let me in."
"Jane. Let me in. Jane. They'll find me."
"Your mother made me promise, Jane."
The sick, wet squelch of his bloody hands pounding on the door will stay with me for months. John and I discussed letting him in this morning, but there's just no way to know. His commitment suggests truth; but a crazed eater might do the same. Or a really dedicated hunter.
I wish there was a way to know.
