Kitchen shears in hand, I walked barefoot out the back door to the side of the house where our milkweed patch spread. The sun was bright, the grass was dry and scratchy against my ankles. We were due for rain. I picked a stalk and before I made any cuts, I carefully checked each leaf on the stalk. Spiders, ants, and beetles easily killed the slothful caterpillars. I didn’t want to bring any murderers into the house. I snipped the stalk in the middle, glue-white sap oozing from the cut and leaving a sticky drop on my shears.

“Hey,” someone yelled.

In front of my house, a car idled against the curb, the driver staring at me. Silver Infiniti.

Oh my God. It’s him.

Should I run, bolt my door, and call the police? Or should I apologize?

Shocked, I did neither. I stood still, milkweed stalk in one hand, shears in the other.

His engine switched off, his door slammed, and, in a few strides, he walked halfway up my lawn, his hand a visor against his forehead. A drip of sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades. My breath was stuck in my chest, thick like milkweed sap. He lowered his hand, revealing a square bandage fastened to his temple.

“You?” he said, smiling, serendipitously. As if he were as bewildered, as if he happened to be here delivering a package and just realized his assailant lived here. “It’s you.”

I gripped the scissors tighter so they wouldn’t slip from my sweaty hand, and sap stuck to my palm. “I thought you were attacking her,” I said, trying to sound sturdy. “I was driving to call the police, but then I saw you standing by your car. You were OK.”

“How so very kind of you,” he said, smiling, walking toward me. “Try to kill a man, leave him to drown, and plan to call the police later to check if he drowned.” He kept coming, closing the distance. He had a familiar look to him. A moderately handsome face, good hair, loose casual curls. Like Trevor. This man wore jeans and a navy button-down shirt, untucked, but not sloppy. The only element that didn’t match his car and outfit was his worker boots, which were brown and worn, laces loose and wide.

He did not look like someone who would recklessly run you off the road and sexually assault your friend. When he’s high, he likes to get rough. Then again, some of the most dangerous men were handsome and professional in appearance, their good looks emboldening their bad behavior.

“What do you want?” I said, backing up slowly.