Christmas Eve and heat’s left the house. Cold climbs the steps, creeping and clawing into Wilson’s bed. He clutches his covers, dreading the draft that drowns out warmth.
Wilson wants to be warm.
Absence of warmth becomes presence of heat. Wilson throws off blistering blankets. It feels like August. He sits up, sees the burning black thing looming before him.
Wilson panics, reaches for the pistol in his nightstand. He fires, no more than six times, and the thing falls, shrinks, draws away summer heat through bullet holes.
The bloodied body of a black boy speaks.
“My name was Michael.”