At 5:02 a.m., my reclusive neighbor hammered on my door and whispered, “Don’t go to work today—by noon, you’ll understand,” then vanished like he’d just broken every rule keeping me alive

was damp with sweat or mist, and his face was pale in the porch light. He looked over his shoulder once before looking back at me. Not casually. Not nervously. Like a man checking whether something had followed him.

“Don’t go to work today,” he said.

I stared at him through the gap in the door.

“What?”

“Stay home.” His voice was low, urgent, controlled continue reading …