Consent given, the inchoate scheme took form, and so many contributed to its birth that none felt wholly responsible. They were passengers, riding the momentum of something greater than themselves.
They waited until long after lights went out. They wore dark clothing. As if they’d gotten the idea from their children’s Slip ’N Slide games that afternoon, some ducked down. When they came back up, their faces were smeared with oil.
As levity or as a scare tactic or something in the vague in-between, twenty-year-old Marco Ponti turned on his phone.
Monday, July 26
There are certain prisons from which other people can provide no solace. Gertie and Arlo fell asleep with white space between them, each tucked into small bundles on opposite sides of their bed. Staticky music played. It entered the cracks of 116 Maple Street. Gertie heard it first. She shook Arlo by the Elsa Lanchester–tattooed shoulder. “Listen.”
Arlo jackknifed.
“Somebody’s playing ‘Wasted.’？”
Arlo pulled the blinds. “There’s someone out there. Wait. More than one, I think. It’s hard to see. They’re all… They did something to their faces.”
Something crashed against the window nearest Gertie.
The creaking air conditioner fell out the window, she guessed. Or maybe it was the old computer that they’d turned into a fish tank. She jolted, struggling, but couldn’t sit upright. Her belly felt like it had been punched by an industrial stapler to the mattress.
Was it the music? The heat? Why was she stuck?
“Arlo! Where are you?” she pleaded. Music played louder. The part where he’s watching cartoons the first time he gets high. “Arlo! Why won’t you answer?”
The lights came on. Skinny Arlo was standing over her, all four tattoos bright and animate against his pale, needle-scarred arms.
“The kids! You need to go check—” Gertie started, but her voice sounded muddy to her own ears.
“Give me,” Arlo said, taking the phone from her bedside table, kissing her cheek and the side of her lip gentle and quick.
“Why am I…？”
She saw then that the window was broken, and the floor beneath it spilled with shattered glass. She followed an imaginary trajectory across the room. Through the window, up toward the bright white ceiling, and then back down, over the bed.
“It’s my wife. I need an ambulance. 116 Maple Street. Can you hear me? Are you getting this?” Arlo looked at the phone. “They got my wife!” he shouted at it, then dialed all over.
By now the kids had woken. They stood in the doorway, Larry in just underpants even though he was too old.
“You’re ’kay, babies. We’re all ’kay,” Gertie croaked as blood surged, sealing her nightgown to her belly.
SNITCHES
July 26–31
Map of Maple Street as of July 26, 2027
*116 Wilde Family
*118 Schroeder Family
INDEX OF MAPLE STREET’S PERMANENT RESIDENTS AS OF JULY 26, 2027
100 VACANT
102 VACANT
104 The Singhs-Kaurs—Sai （47）， Nikita （36）， Pranav （16）， Michelle （14）， Sam （13）， Sarah （9）， John （7）
106 VACANT
108 VACANT
110 The Hestias—Rich （51）， Cat （48）， Helen （17）， Lainee （14）
112 VACANT
114 The Walshes—Sally （49）， Margie （46）， Charlie （13）
116 The Wildes—Arlo （39）， Gertie （31）， Julia （12）， Larry （8）
118 The Schroeders—Fritz （62）， Rhea （53）， FJ （19）， Ella （9）
120 The Benchleys—Robert （78）， Kate （74）， Peter （39）
122 VACANT
124 The Harrisons—Timothy （46）， Jane （45）， Adam （16）， Dave （14）
126 The Pontis—Steven （52）， Jill （48）， Marco （20）， Richard （16）
128 The Ottomanellis—Dominick （44）， Linda （44）， Mark （12）， Michael （12）
130 The Atlases—Bethany （37）， Fred （30）
132 VACANT
134 VACANT
TOTAL: 39 PEOPLE
From Newsday, July 26, 2027, page 68
A Garden City woman was rushed to NYU Winthrop Hospital early this morning when a brick crashed through the window of her residence, 116 Maple Street. The woman, Gertie Wilde, remains in critical condition. She is twenty-seven weeks pregnant.
Because of satellite interference, an ambulance was not immediately available. An investigation of the incident is ongoing. Detective Don Bianchi asks that anyone with information contact the Garden City Police Department.
From Believing What You See: Untangling the Maple Street Murders, by Ellis Haverick,