They move among us and prey upon us. Some are invisible. Some look like us. Some are inside us.
Jimmy Temple was heading home on a gray and colorless evening when he died. The razor flew from an alley and sliced into him. It was a ripple, a blur, like a heat haze or the thinnest imaginable sheet of cellophane passing over the mouth of the alley. Then it was slicing through skin, muscle, and bone.
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