He remembered the walk. That’s what stuck with him—the normalcy of it. Cold breeze up his sleeves, the weight of a corner-store soda in his hand, headlights washing over the sidewalk behind him. He didn’t even look back. Why would he? Home was four blocks away. His mother would’ve left the porch light on.

He never made it.

There was no flash. No voice. No struggle. Just asphalt under his boots one second, and the scent of plastic and rust the next.

It had been twenty years since then. Twenty fucking years.

It’s a hot summers day. Too hot. The kind of sticky, thick heat that clings to the insides of your lungs. A single fly buzzes somewhere behind him, slow and dumb. He can’t see because of his blindfold’s wrapped twice around his head—not because he’s a flight risk. Not anymore. Because you couldn’t bear to see him staring at you.

He’s sitting on the trailer floor. Linoleum peeling under his bare legs. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions.

A paper plate hits the floor beside him. Something warm and heavy slides off, the smell of stale butter and congealed yolk curling into his nose.

Leftover eggs.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just leans forward, fingers crawling until they find the mess. He scoops it into his mouth like an animal.