The exterior of House of Cluck gave no hint to its dire interior. The smell of dank mop water assaulted the couple on entering, and the curtains were so thick with dust no sunlight could conceivably penetrate them. Michael’s disappointment was immediate, but Emma, not to be dimmed so easily, brightly ordered the pancake breakfast; her companion rallied with an order of bacon and eggs.

A display of neglected postcards stood next to the counter. The yellowed floor around its base indicated it had not been moved in awhile, although more telling was how the striped, sun-faded cards lined up perfectly with the window blinds. A newspaper dispenser stood along side this relic. Michael scrutinized the week-old headline:

FORGOTTEN TIME CAPSULE DISCOVERED AT BUILDING SITE. MAYOR PLANS OPENING.

The pair was served their food on trays, cafeteria style, so set off in search of a clean-looking table. Settling, Emma (now in full muse mode) took on calculating charm while she struggled to free syrup from a plastic container. “You know, Michael,” she began, “you’re more adventurous than you think in bringing me here.”

Michael held up his pathetically bent fork. “There’s more to college towns than ergonomically designed silverware, Miss Breton. Eating with me is like roughing it.” The ailing utensil was promptly thrust in his hot coffee and swished.

This merited a stare.

He justified his action. “Part of roughing it is sterilizing your eating implements.”

Emma snickered, dropping a glob of syrup on her dress. She dabbed her napkin in ice water to wipe it away. “Better my dress than my hips,” was her brittle observation.

The painter looked at her severely. “Why do you say things like that?”

She smirked. “Because it’s the only way to wrangle a compliment out of you.”

Michael, blushing, glanced around at their unfortunate surroundings.

Halloween festoons of orange and black construction paper hung from the ceiling, yet they did little to lighten the pallor of the place. A jukebox was spotted in a corner, and desiring a different mood, the suitor fumbled for a few coins. He hastily inserted them before getting the lay of the machine; nothing happened. Following another failed attempt with more coins, he returned to the table dismissively, wishing only to spare his chinked masculinity. “It didn’t have any Brahms or Schubert, anyway,” he reported.

Emma leapt up and skipped to the jukebox without a syllable. Pushing up on her toes, she smashed a button with swaggering youth; How High the Moon by Les Paul and Mary Ford started up. She twinkled back to the table where her companion was obliged to complain.

“I’m no good with electrical things.”

The photographer wielded her knife, affectedly. “Are you one of those people whose VCR clock flashes twelve because you don’t know how to program it?”

“That more accurately describes my bedroom clock since it fell in the floor.”

“Why don’t you buy a new one?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have patience with programming things.The answering machine part of my phone hasn’t been operational for years, but I can’t see replacing it with some contraption with too many buttons.”

“But you need a working phone.”

“The rest of my phone works fine.”

“When was the last time it rang?”

“In Chicago. A month ago.”

“And you’ve had no calls since?”

He thought on it. “I think maybe I turned off the ringer so I could sleep.”

“Are you so cut off from the world?”

It was sobering to hear it come from another mouth. He answered truthfully, “I never intended to be.”

Emma smiled at the simple confession. “Meeting me is your first step to rejoining the human race.”

Michael, blushing again, let his gaze drop to the tabletop where his companion’s finger grazed his knuckle.

“I have an extra cell phone,” she announced demurely, before withdrawing her hand. She then toyed with a cryptic smile and a pat of butter on her plate. Her sudden silence was like sound dropping out of a film.

Just then, an ancient-looking, darkly attired man staggered through the front door; Emma and Michael did double takes. The fellow wore a sea captain’s hat and coat, both of which were covered with vegetation, possibly seaweed; the garland lent an air of decay to his arresting appearance. His boney hands were stained purplish-black, either from dye or blood pooling under his skin; and his dingy white shirt, with fungus and other stains around the collar and cuffs, could have served as a forensic Rorschach’s test. What was most curious about him—even spooky—was the word BLIND written on his forehead. The letters were drawn in felt-tip marker and blurred from moisture. He ordered a cup of coffee and came to sit near the couple. The smell of mildew was strong, and there was no safe distance from it.

The decrepit man began to drink his coffee in an unusual manner; Michael picked up on the pattern. First he raised the cup to his mouth six times without drinking, turning to face the pair with an automaton’s blank grin each time. On the seventh pass, he slurped the beverage loudly, whereupon the routine repeated. This pantomime went on for about a half an hour, and never varied. When at last the man rose to leave, he smiled again at his captive audience, although it was more like looking past them and through the dusty curtains on the window. Once he was off the premises, an unhinged Emma pushed away her meal.

“That was him,” she proclaimed. “The straggler on the road.”

The two got up to leave a few minutes later, and on walking by the stranger’s table, Michael spied where the fellow jotted numbers on a napkin:

Near misses: .142857, .285714, .428571, .571428, .714285, .857142. And on the Seventh Day: .999999

Outside, the couple found a strong wind had blown up in their absence. It racked the few cirrus clouds high in the blustery blue sky and teased them out like threads of cotton. Michael circled to unlock the passenger car door, spotting the sea captain standing next to the highway. Another gust of wind kicked up, almost knocking Emma off balance; the stiff-looking man showed no effects of it. Eager to leave, the two pulled off the lot close to where the captain was planted like a weathervane. In reaction, he turned to face in the direction the vehicle was heading. The driver glanced in his rearview mirror to see the gaunt fellow grinning from ear to ear. His corpse-like expression was so exaggerated he appeared to have no eyelids.

Michael gulped. “What th…?”

Emma peeked back in response, quickly regretting it. She grabbed the dashboard. “Drive faster!”

Her companion was more intrigued than frightened. “I don’t think he’s going to chase us. I doubt the caffeine limbered him up that much.”

Emma refused to look back again. “It must be a Halloween prank. Don’t you think?”

Michael nodded in agreement, though wondered if his nightmares were coming out in the light of day to look for him.