MOUSE

IT IS ALWAYS THE QUIET ONES.

Palm Springs. Mid-Century geometry. The number 58 on the asphalt. An Air-Cooled 911 sitting low in front of the house, as if it has been there for a while and noticed everything.

Nothing happens.

Suspicious.

The house is still. The road empty. The morning perfectly behaved.

Then you imagine the key turning.

MOUSE.

Small name. Air-cooled voice.

End of silence.