He’s paranoid that he may be paranoid. He knows the man outside his house is looking for him, and despite his wife’s exasperation, he refuses to leave. So she throws up her hands and says she’s going to work. But he knows better. He always has.

Once he’s alone (as alone as he can be), he always turns off all the lights so the people with their special instruments can’t find him. He burns the trash because people will go through it, looking for anything that will give him away. The mailbox is filled with bombs, the envelopes with powders that will kill him slowly. The stray dog that walks through his yard every morning is spying on him, and all the cars that drive by are filled with people searching for him.

He often wonders what will happen if they find him, what they all want him for. Sometimes he considers leaving, going as far as he can, maybe even leaving the country. But his wife would know. She would follow him, tell them where he is. Then it would be all over.

Their water supply is tainted; there are hidden cameras all over his house. There is a man in a black coat standing outside the house, and he doesn’t go out anymore.