To my left, on a fluorescent green lounge chair, is a body.

It’s a man, wearing jeans and cowboy boots, a gray hoodie, and a red Ohio State ball cap pulled down over his face. One arm hangs over the edge of the lounge chair, just brushing the pavement. He looks like he’s out for an afternoon nap.

His leg moves.

I slam on the brakes, and Emmaline tumbles into the foot well. “Sorry!” I throw at her, even as I fumble to unlatch my seat belt and fling the door wide.

“Hello?” I say, running toward the lounge chair. “Are you awake?”

He doesn’t respond.

Emmaline comes to sit beside me as I peer down at him. His chest rises and falls. “Sir? I’m sorry to wake you, but I could really use some help.”

No answer. Maybe he’s sick.

I reach down to shake his shoulder.

It caves beneath my touch, like pudding, and I recoil, almost tripping over Emmaline. His chest heaves, and something small and white squirms out below the waist of his hoodie. Then several somethings. Then thousands of somethings, tumbling over each other and milling about like plump grains of rice.

I scream, backing away, and then I’m dashing for the car, the dog at my heels. I throw myself inside, and the second Emmaline follows, I slam the door closed. I hug the steering wheel, letting my forehead fall against the center column. The horn rips the air and Emmaline yips in response, but I don’t pay any attention. I stay this way a long time, catching my breath, fighting against nausea.

Finally, the sound of the horn becomes intrusive, and I raise my head. You are not afraid of maggots, Paige. Maggots can’t hurt you.

Emmaline’s wet tongue on my hand startles me. She’s either giving comfort or asking for it. I scritch her behind the ear. Her tail thumps.

I force myself to look at the body in the lounge chair. He seems a bit deflated now, and the maggots that fell from him cover the sidewalk. From a few strides away the concrete appears to move, like liquid.

Just maggots. Harmless.

I put the car in gear and push forward into the cul-de-sac.

Beyond the scattered remnants of the block party, bright green lawns stretch wide, the grass now ragged and already growing over the edges of concrete driveways. One lawn sports a high flagpole, and the Stars and Stripes whips in the wind. Below it in the front window is a huge sign with the words I VOTE FOR FREEDOM!

To the right of the window is a lovely porch with a swing. Two bodies sit on the swing’s bench. No, they’re more like skeletons, with dry clothes hanging over picked-clean bones. They seem to be holding hands.