“I guess so,” she said.

They couldn’t tell me anything about them. They hadn’t ever spoken with them, although, as my Aunt pointed out, they wouldn’t likely know they had or hadn’t, because they didn’t know what their face looked like. But neither thought they had. If they changed out of their work clothes and went passing on the street, someone might well have waved hello, exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather. My aunt’s lack of concern didn’t rub off on me; I pulled my shades down and stopped looking out the window of my room. I didn’t want to see that rubber face with bird shit eyes again. When I heard Dr. Wilson talking next door, I turned up my headphones or stopped reading and stuck my head under my pillow, but it was like I could feel them out there, in that stifling mask with only the narrow eye slits, no opening in the mouth, breathing in the rank rubber smell, the headachy stink of the paint and the glue and stale breath. I caught another glimpse of them one night, coming around Dr. Wilson’s house from the back yard, hauling out the trash can to the curb. A big guy, who carried themself with the impatient, heavy step I associated with maintenance men and construction workers. The livid green of the mask was flushed blue with the twilight. I turned my head away and went inside quickly, but I worried that they’d seen me do it and realized I hadn’t wanted to look at them and might resent it. They’d never made any sound that I’d heard, not any vocal sound. I don’t know why I did it. I acted without thinking. I turned back. They’d finished with the trash and were striding back toward the rear of Dr. Wilson’s house.

“Hey,” I called. I kept repeating it, but they didn’t turn around. They just vanished around the corner.