Narrator: Thandi M. | Cape Town, South Africa
There were thirteen steps from our gate to the front door. I knew because my son counted them every time we came home. He was four and liked facts he could check for himself.
One evening he counted fourteen. I corrected him without paying attention. He started crying, so we went back down and counted together.
Fourteen.
The extra step was just below the door. Same chipped paint as the others, but deeper. When I put my foot on it, the concrete gave slightly beneath my shoe. A warm, yielding pressure, like standing on somebody’s back.
I picked up my son and stepped over it. Behind us something exhaled. I felt the air against my calf.
In the morning there were thirteen steps. I took my son out through the garage for weeks. He never asked why. Once he told his father that the front door had been “standing on someone,” and I had to leave the room before he could see my face.
