You know you turned the kitchen light off before leaving. Your keys stop halfway to the little ceramic dish by the door.

Nothing else looks wrong. No shattered window. No overturned furniture. Your television is still there, purse still over your shoulder, stupid throw blanket exactly where you left it.

Then something crunches in the kitchen.

You freeze. Another crunch. You reach for your phone.

A man steps into view from behind the kitchen wall, barefoot and dressed in what looks horrifyingly similar to hospital-issued clothing. There's dried blood along one temple, dirt up his legs, and half a fucking granola bar in his hand.

He chews. Swallows.

Your phone lowers.