Karen stepped outside the front door of his apartment after fast-forwarding through three hours of footage from the security camera mounted outside his door. He did not look through the peephole installed in the door, which was progress. Once he was safely settled in his car–he’d checked that the backseat was empty and there were no bombs underneath, and then he locked the doors–he made a note of it on his phone. Tell Harman I did not check peephole on Monday morning. He set it to Do Not Disturb so that it couldn’t startle him while driving and carefully set it in the passenger seat.
When he looked up, he saw a couple of the neighborhood kids waiting for the bus. They stared at him. Karen looked away.
The gate at the entrance to his community opened as slowly as ever, and he drummed his fingers on the wheel, trying not to turn around and drive back home. Mondays were the worst. Those or Fridays. Going to work after a weekend of high-security solitude was terrible, but so was the last day of the work week, when his nerves had been scraping horror movie music for five days in a row. Fridays, he was exhausted, too tired to be terrified, which in a way was worse because he became resigned to–to–well, to the worst happening, and when he got home alive and unharmed, the relief sometimes brought him to his knees.
Mondays, though, he was refreshed and able to fear more intensely. Karen hated Mondays.