The doorbell rang. Chad glanced at the clock on the office wall. He waited for Julie to shout that she had it, or maybe Charlie, who at the age of five had decided every phone call and visitor was his and his alone to greet. But it was just past three—Charlie was in kindergarten, and Julie was on her way to pick him up. Chad had the house to himself.

He sighed, saved the spreadsheet he’d been working on, and locked his computer. The pandemic hadn’t been much for blessings, but working from home turned out to be one of them. More time with his son, less watercooler bullshit. They were even thinking of adopting a dog. Next up would be a white picket fence and another child and a half. 

Chad locked the office door behind him and prepared himself for whomever was at the door. Probably a neighbor; he hoped not one of the Clarks, whose six children always seemed to be engaged in some sort of fundraiser. A struggling couple could only purchase so many chocolates and candles. Six kids. Chad could barely keep up with the one. Julie said that made Glenn and Shelly superheroes; Chad thought it meant they’d slept through Sex Ed. He dreaded the day he’d have to go door-to-door; but hey, maybe that would be another pandemic blessing. Find the silver lining and cling to it; that was Julie’s motto. It wasn’t Chad’s, but on occasion it worked for him.

The doorbell rang again, and then the thunk of a fist on wood, which meant whoever it was had opened the screen door. Did people normally do that? It felt intrusive, rude. Chad slowed. Even Glenn Clark wasn’t that insistent. And no solicitor in his right mind would start with his fist. It took a certain amount of urgency or anger to bang on a door. And Chad didn’t know what could be so urgent at three p.m. on a Thursday.

He almost stopped. He could see the door, but he couldn’t see who was on the other side. The window was off to the side, curtains drawn; he could see the outline of a vehicle in his driveway, a large pickup. The windows in the door itself were too high, and there was no peephole. Whoever had designed this door had not had self-preservation in mind, a thought that had never occurred to him before but now seemed of the utmost importance, perhaps even the single most important factor when designing a door. Does it open? Yes, okay. But can you tell if you want to open it? Shouldn’t that factor into the design? How could a man protect his home if he didn’t know who or what was on the other side?
The last made him laugh. Not a long laugh, not a loud laugh, but a laugh. Who or what. Sure. A vampire couldn’t just stroll in; it had to be invited. 

Open the fucking door. If it’s Count Dracula, congratulations, you’re a statistical oddity.

Plus, the sun was shining. And Julie had cooked a garlic-heavy linguini the night before.

Chad shook off the nerves, put on his best fake smile, unlocked the door, and pulled open the door.

He immediately regretted it.

No vampire. Certainly no Count. But the man who stood before him was large, impressively so, a good four inches taller than Chad and maybe twice as wide, denim overalls and plaid work shirt barely constraining the chest of a professional wrestler. A large, stubbled face highlighted by a pug nose and deep-set, dark brown eyes beneath a mop of receding dirty blond hair. The man had his fist raised, to knock again, and Chad instinctively cringed back, expecting a blow, as though this man wouldn’t be bothered by the fact the door was no longer there, would let go anyways. A single blow from that fist would send Chad to the floor, probably to the emergency room, possibly to the morgue.

They stared at each other for a moment. The man’s face registered no surprise. He studied Chad, as if trying to put his face in place, locate a memory somewhere. Slowly, he lowered his fist. His hand, however, remained clenched.

“It is you,” the man said. “Isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Chad glanced over the man’s shoulder. The pickup was two-toned, red and white, a mid-nineties Chevrolet. A layman’s pickup, the kind used to hard work and harder miles. Chad thought he saw someone in the passenger seat, but the sun glared off the window and he couldn’t be sure.

“Fate led me here,” the man said. He spoke with certainty, finality.

Chad swallowed carefully, wetting his tongue. He turned back to the man and found it difficult to meet those eyes. They were dark, but they glowed.

“Who are you?” Chad asked.

“William told me we wouldn’t find you, but we did. I did.”

“Mister…”

“No,” the man said. He raised his other hand, one finger raised. “Do not talk down to me. Do not talk down to me. Do not.”

“I’m sorry. I just…”

Chad’s voice trailed away. The man seemed to watch the words disappear into the afternoon sun. He said, “You thought I wouldn’t find you?”

A car drove by. From somewhere distant, a train whistle blew. Chad thought, That’ll hold Julie up. They’ll be late getting back.

“Listen,” Chad said, slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. I think you’ve got the wrong house.”

“Not the house,” the man said. “Not the goddamn house. It ain’t the fuckin’ house.”

Chad’s cell phone was on the desk in his office. The office door was locked. They’d had the land line disconnected several months ago; they hadn’t made or received a call on it for months prior to that. Why hadn’t he grabbed his phone? Didn’t he always grab his phone? And if not—why, dammit?

“I’m sorry,” Chad stammered again. “Really, I don’t know—”

“You can apologize,” the man said. “You will apologize, if you’re a Christian man. But you don’t mean it just yet because I haven’t forgiven you yet. Fate led me here and fate means for me to have my goddamn say. It ain’t your house.”

“Okay,” Chad said.

The man pointed. “That your Subaru in the carport? Your candy apple fuckin’ red Subaru?”

“I—yes, that’s my car. That’s my car and this is my house.”

The man nodded. “Yes. It is your car. I knew it! Your fuckin’ car.” He leaned closer. “You don’t recognize me, huh, mister?”

Chad took an instinctive step back, but not too far. He had a feeling the word “trespassing” was not currently in this man’s vocabulary. Along with a few other pertinent words that would keep that fist at bay.

“I don’t know you,” Chad said. “Seriously. I think…I think you’ve made a mistake. If you could just—”

“Fate led me here. Fate don’t make mistakes. That’s your candy apple fuckin’ red Subaru. The same candy apple fuckin’ red Subaru that cut me off in the Walmart parking lot yesterday afternoon. Isn’t it.”

Chad blinked. “What?”

“You cut me off, mister. Made me spill my drink, my Diet Mountain Dew. But it’s not about the drink. Diet Mountain Dew don’t cost much. I can buy another. I had to, after all, since you made me spill it. But it’s not the drink. You understand that? It’s not the fuckin’ drink.”

“It’s not the drink,” Chad said. Whispered. He thought, So this is what madness looks like. You think it looks like Jimmy Breslin jumping off the train trestle when you were ten years old, without checking the depth of the water beneath. You think it looks like going all the way with Rebecca Henderson on prom night even though her father is a Sheriff’s deputy. That’s what you think it looks like. But it doesn’t. It looks like this.

“It’s the courtesy,” the man said. He spoke almost politely. “You have to have courtesy. My daddy taught me that. Used his belt to really hammer it in. It’s all about courtesy. I tell William the same thing. Bring him up right. Courtesy. You don’t just cut people off. You wait. You follow the rules. And if you do break the rules, if you do cut someone off, you apologize to them. You say you’re sorry. You give a wave and smile. That way I know that you know that you fucked up. If I don’t know that you know that you fucked up, how do I know you won’t fuck up again? How do I know that’s not just the kind of discourteous person you are?”

Chad took a breath. Barely got it down his throat. He glanced at the pickup again. Had he seen it before? It looked like any dozen old trucks he’d seen around the county. So maybe yes he’d seen it. Couldn’t be sure. And maybe his mind had slipped at some point. It happened, right? He’d run a red light once, fifteen years ago, late for a possible job opportunity, the job hadn’t even panned out, maybe that was for the best, but yes he’d run that light. No one had seen him, at least no one who cared, but as soon as he’d crossed the intersection he’d thought, The light was red, and he’d checked all his mirrors to see if he’d been seen, to know if he’d been noticed. And maybe he’d even run a couple he wasn’t aware of. Sometimes the mind just slipped. That wasn’t a sin. Come to think of it, probably this was a truck he’d seen before, he could almost remember it—

His mind came to a halt. He shook his head. Blinked.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” he said. He admired the steel in his voice. Admired it, and feared its consequences.

“Excuse me?”

“You said the Walmart parking lot. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Walmart parking lot, yesterday afternoon. Candy apple fuckin’ red Subaru cut me off and made me spill my Diet Mountain Dew. But—”

“It’s not about the drink,” Chad said. “I wasn’t at Walmart yesterday afternoon, mister. That car didn’t leave my driveway yesterday. I picked up fried chicken Tuesday evening because I had to stop by the hardware store to pick up some shelving units. Haven’t been to Walmart in a week. We do our grocery shopping at County Market.”

The man leaned back. His enormous frame seemed to take all the oxygen with it. He cocked his head.

“You calling me a liar?”

“I’m saying you’re mistaken. That’s all. There are other Subarus around here—”

“Fate led me here. I drove around, trusting to fate to find the car that cut me off.” The man pointed again. “And there it is. Right. Fuckin’. There. You saying that ain’t your car?”

“It’s my car,” Chad said. He thought this was a strange person speaking through him. He thought of taking another step back. He wondered if he could get the door slammed shut in time. “But it wasn’t my car you saw yesterday.”

The man watched him for a moment, left arm straight out, still pointing. Daring Chad to say it wasn’t his car. Daring Chad to call him a liar one more time. Just one. More. Fuckin’. Time.

“I wasn’t at Walmart yesterday,” Chad said. He couldn’t hear a waver in his voice, but he felt it in his gut. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave now.”

The man lowered his arm slowly. Chad kept one eye on it, the other on that right hand, still clenched tight. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, curving around his spine. His stomach dropped, his chest ached. Now he was glad the train would delay Julie. Now he was glad he was here alone, that his wife and child were on the other side of town. You cannot reason with madness, Chad realized. It was not a fact most men truly learned in their lifetimes, and when they did learn it, the knowledge came instantly and with a sharp twist of regret, the pain of not having arrived sooner, when it could have made a difference.

“You’re not calling me a liar,” the man said. He spoke evenly, no emotion in his voice. Everything was circled around his eyes, in the pinched lines on his broad face. “You’re not calling me a liar. You’re calling fate a liar.”

Yes, Chad thought. I am calling fate a liar. Fate is a motherfuckin’ liar.

The man raised his fist again. “Fate led me here,” the man said, “and fate don’t fuckin’ lie. I won’t stand that kind of talk, especially not from a discourteous son of a bitch like—”

“Dad!”

Chad blinked. Charlie? No, please god no. Not now.

But it wasn’t Charlie. The passenger door of the pickup stood ajar. Leaning outside the cab, as far as his seatbelt would let him, was an overweight boy, maybe ten or eleven, a spitting image of the man on Chad’s doorstep, a miniature clone without the stubble and with a full head of hair, dressed almost identically, same overalls, same plaid shirt, maybe a slightly different pattern but the same colors.

“Dad!” the kid shouted again. “Dad, it’s not him!”

The man turned his head. “You stay in the car and mind your own, William! Don’t you yell at me!”

The boy pointed. “It’s not the right license plate, Dad! The car that cut us off had a funny license plate! You said the driver was too smart for his own good! This one’s just numbers and letters!”

The man glared at the boy. “A funny one?”

“Yeah! A funny one! This one’s normal! It’s not him, Dad! Honest!”

The man watched the boy a few seconds longer. The fist did not waver. Now was Chad’s chance. Slam the door, throw the lock. But he couldn’t move. If he didn’t get the door locked in time, the man would come in. And maybe a locked door wouldn’t stop him. Maybe nothing would.

Slowly, the man turned back to Chad. The anger had not left his face. He lowered his arm, methodically, as though thinking through each movement. He said, “I’m not a fuckin’ liar.”

“Okay,” Chad said.

“You have to be courteous to others,” the man said. “Didn’t your parents raise you right?”

Chad said nothing.

“Now I have to find some other discourteous son of a bitch and give him the talk all over again. Fate will not let me down.”

He turned away and walked back to the pickup, dismissing Chad entirely. In this man’s world, Chad had, in fact, ceased to exist.

The man paused before the carport. Stared down the license plate. “Candy apple fuckin’ red Subaru,” the man said. He spat on the pavement, then walked around the front of the truck and climbed inside. The boy watched him like a wounded animal. He glanced at Chad. There was no sympathy in the boy’s face, only trepidation. The boy closed the door and was immediately lost to the glare of the sun yet again.

The truck rumbled to life with a loud bark and peeled out of the driveway without pausing. The man drove off, ran the nearest stop sign, and vanished around the corner. A trail of exhaust drifted in his wake, though it, too, quickly dispersed in the still afternoon air.

Chad’s breath returned slowly, as if it had lost its way and could not find his body. When his hands stopped shaking, he stepped back into the house, slowly pulling the screen door shut. He calmly turned the lock, then leaned against the door and moaned. His knees buckled; if he had not felt weightless, he would have fallen. 

Eventually—seconds, minutes, maybe hours—enough strength returned for him to make his way back to the office. He fumbled with his keys and managed to get the door unlocked. He plopped down into his desk chair and unlocked his computer. Stared at the spreadsheet on the screen, trying to make sense of the numbers. He was still there when he heard the front door open, Charlie calling for him. Chad stared at the screen. He knew he should reply, should get up and greet them, at least acknowledge their presence. It was the polite thing to do. It was simple courtesy.