They arrive in your kitchen at midnight through a door that was a pantry yesterday, three people wearing your face: one crowned, one flinching, one serene. The crowned one spreads a map on your table that hurts to look at, worlds crossed out in long neat strokes, and the strokes are getting closer to a circle marked with your address. Outside, the streetlight flickers, and for half a second the street beneath it simply is not there. The coward says, quietly, that it has found the door.