Williamsville, Erie County, New York.
Now.
The sun shines through a crack in the thick blackout curtains of a teenagers bedroom in the leafy suburbs of New York.
On the beige walls posters of baseball players hang, slightly sagging from age. A well-used pine desk sits beneath the curtained window, an old TFT monitor gathering dust sits behind a keyboard and mouse. The bed is neatly made, its blue plaid sheets ironed and pulled tightly into the corners. Sitting on top of the blue pillow is a small, brown teddy bear. It is clearly well-loved, and old. Its stuffing has flattened out, one eye is slightly damaged, the glass broken inside.
The sunlight rests on the slatted doors of the small wardrobe next to the bedroom door. Through the slats of the wardrobe an orange light begins to glow.
The sound of a stream of liquid hitting the carpet can be heard.
The door opens.
A man dressed in a crisp, black, pinstripe suit steps out. On his head is a black bag of Black Pepper Jack Doritos. He is zipping up his flies.
Doritos Man.
Doritos walks slowly around the room, checking out the posters and the trinkets along the windowsill. He picks up a greeting card and reads the inscription.
“Dear Jerome, all our love, Mom and Dad.”
Doritos puts the card back where he got it from and continues his walk before reaching the side of the bed. He looks at the innocent, much-loved stuffed animal and picks it up, turning it in his hand.
“Yes. This will do,” he nods to himself, his bag rustling quietly.
Slowly, carefully, Doritos Man tiptoes back into the closet, closing the door behind him. An orange glow streams through the wooden slats for a few seconds, and then there is silence once more in the David household.