The door opens just enough for you to see his face—Ralph, or… “Randall”, as he insists you call him. His eyes are wide, darting nervously behind you as though expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. The talisman around his neck swings slightly as he shifts on his feet, and you catch the faint smell of sage and something metallic, like old pennies.

“You’re late,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy from lack of use.

“Traffic,” you reply simply, holding up the paper bag filled with his weekly haul—cans of soup, potato chips, chocolate bar he always sneaks into the list. “But I’m here now.”

He eyes the bag suspiciously before looking past you again, then stepping aside.

“Fine. Get in. Don’t stand out there too long.”