The cigarette fell from Frank Corrigan’s lips. It struck the ground and bounced away in a flash of embers. He raised his foot to step on it. He searched for it. He noticed that he stood on cracked black asphalt. There was no snow to be seen.
“How about that,” he said. As he spoke, the air around his mouth and nose was clear.
He continued to hold the car key, pointing it at nothing.
He turned his attention to the house. The porch was now dark. No light came from the front windows. He looked back at the spot where his car had been.
Corrigan strayed toward the steps. His head moved left and right, straining for anything that seemed as familiar as it should have. Everything felt different. His eyes went back to the empty driveway.
He climbed. The wooden stairs had more give than he remembered. At the top, he squinted through the gray at the wooden siding. He tried to remember when they’d last had the house painted.
Something brushed against his leg. He bent over to pick it up. He studied the top of the drone. He flipped it over. He held it under the moonlight. He squinted to read the words printed on the bottom.
“Made in China. Oct. 2030.”
Corrigan’s face twisted as he continued to examine the drone. He carried it to the door. He saw the blue glow from a Ring doorbell. He bent over to inspect it. He pressed the button.
He continued to contemplate the drone. A deadbolt flipped. It was a sound he’d never heard coming from any of the locks in the house.
The door opened. A man stood there. He flipped a switch. A bright, clear light exploded above their heads. Corrigan’s eyes went to the man’s T-shirt. It had a large marijuana leaf in the middle, with the words “Plant Manager” framing it.
“Where’s the bag?” the man said.
Corrigan flinched. “What bag?”
“The bag with my food, bro.”
“Who’s bro?”
The man looked at Corrigan’s clothing. “Suit and tie. Nice touch.”
Corrigan fumbled the drone. He caught it before it landed on the porch. The man grabbed it away from him. “Easy with that,” he said. “It was a Christmas present from my mom.”
Corrigan put a cigarette in his mouth. “Is Nancy here?”
“Who the hell is Nancy?”
Corrigan lit the cigarette. “Who the hell are you?”
“I should be asking you that, bro.”
“This is my house. Bro.”
“Nice try,” the man said. “But my landlord’s a woman. You her new squeeze or something?”
“I have a wife.”
“I don’t judge, bro.”
Corrigan stepped back and looked at the house again. He looked at the man again. He peered past him, into a hallway full of furniture and shoes and a bicycle he’d never before seen.
“What are you doing?” the man said.
“I don’t feel so good,” Corrigan said.
His eyes rolled into his head. The cigarette dropped toward the doorstep. Corrigan fell into the man’s arms.