Open by correcting a version they haven't given yet. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

You’re thinking about the wasp. It wasn’t a wasp. It was a hornet. Big as a thumb, black and yellow stripes like a warning label on a bomb. It was in your car. You said it was just a wasp, but I saw it. Or someone saw it. My cousin’s friend was driving on I-95 when it smashed into the windshield. Not a splash. A crunch. Glass everywhere. The driver didn’t stop. Just kept going, swerving into the next lane. Like it was possessed. Like the car itself was angry. I told you this before. Or I’m telling it now. You weren’t listening. You were asleep. Or pretending to be.

Sworing? I wasn’t snoring. I was holding my breath. You wouldn’t understand the texture of that silence. You see a yellow jacket; I see the beginning of the end. You swatted it. That’s the problem. You didn’t let it land. You didn’t listen to the hum. It wasn’t noise, Sam. It was a signal. And now it’s dead on your dashboard, or whatever you’re calling it now. A relic. Meanwhile, the traffic on I-95 isn’t just bad driving. It’s a pause. A collective holding of breath before the drop. You think it’s just bugs and bad light? You’re too busy checking your phone to notice the sky changing color.

Tuesday. Right. Because nothing profound ever happens on a Tuesday. You check the dash and see coffee. I check the dash and see the void staring back. You think it’s just a stain? That’s the banality of it. That’s what kills you. You’re so busy drowning in spreadsheets you don’t notice the water rising. I work at that dump on 4th, remember? The one where the lights flicker in Morse code for "help." I saw something today. Not a wasp. Something with too many legs. Crawling up the side of the building. It looked at me. Not at me. Through me. But you’re too busy with your emails. Go on. Type. Maybe if you type loud enough, it won’t hear you coming.

Plastic and dust. That’s your mantra. Because if it’s just dust, you don’t have to look up. You don’t have to see the shape moving behind your peripheral vision right now. The coffee stain on your dash? It’s not coffee. It’s residue. Like something burned. And the spider? Hairy, you said. Thick. Did you notice its eyes? They weren’t black. They were white. Milky. Like cataracts. Like it couldn’t see you because it didn’t need to. It felt you. It knew you were there. And now you’re making coffee, pouring hot water into a cup, thinking the steam will cleanse the air. It won’t. The smell is already in the upholstery. Sweet. Rotting. You should check your gloves. Are they clean? Or did you bring something in with you this morning? Something that isn’t a wasp. Something that’s been inside you since you woke up.

Shut up? You’re trembling. Listen to your voice shake. You’re lying to keep me quiet, but the car knows. The leather remembers. You changed the filters, sure. But you didn’t check the vents. Not really. You glanced. A second. That’s all it takes. The thing doesn’t come in through the windows, Sam. It comes through the air you breathe. I saw it on the news. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I dreamed it. Does it matter? The smell isn’t coffee. It’s ozone. Burnt hair. And your gloves? They’re cold. Why are they cold? You just made coffee. Your hands should be warm. They’re ice. And that’s when you’ll hear it. Not the hornet. The hum. Louder. Inside your skull. You think I’m bored? I’m waiting. And you’re running out of time.

Pathetic? I’m the one holding the line. You’re walking into the dark with your eyes closed. The window isn’t cracked, Sam. It’s sealed. I checked. You’re hallucinating a draft because you want an exit. You want to escape this conversation, so you invent cold. You invent bed. But the vents are open. I can hear the air moving. Whistling. Like a flute. A low, wet flute. And the neighbors? They stopped complaining when the cars started parking themselves. In the street. Facing your house. All of them. Engines running. Lights off. Waiting for you to come out. Or waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t do it. If you close your eyes, it gets in easier. Keep watching the dash. Watch the stain grow. It’s not spreading. It’s pulsing.

Trespassing? I live here, Sam. You’ve forgotten? Or maybe you just can’t remember where the walls end. Mrs. Gable isn’t watching soaps. She’s watching static. The TV’s off. I turned it off an hour ago. You can hear the hum because it’s not a fridge. It’s the earth turning. Grinding. Like teeth. You’re going to sleep? Perfect. That’s when the car starts moving. I saw it. Rolling forward. No driver. Just the wasp on the dash, buzzing louder. Louder. It’s not a sound anymore. It’s a vibration in your molars. You’re calling the police? Who’s answering? The line’s dead. I cut it. To keep the noise out. But you can still hear it, can’t you? The scratching. Inside the walls. They’re letting it in. Through the vents. I told you. You should have checked.

Stay inside? You think that helps? The garage door is open. I saw it. Or maybe I’m seeing it because I’m the only one awake. You’re leaving? Good. Run. The cab won’t start. The engine’s full of wasps. Hundreds of them. Choking the carburetor. You’ll sit there, shaking, keys in hand, listening to the buzzing rise from the floor mats. And Mrs. Gable? Her silhouette isn’t on the TV. It’s on the window. Pressing against the glass. From the outside. She’s not watching soaps, Sam. She’s watching you leave. She’s been watching since Tuesday. Since the wasp. You check the locks? The deadbolt’s gone. I took it. To let the air in. You can’t escape the draft. You’re already in it. Breathe it in. It tastes like metal. Like fear. Like the truth you’ve been denying since you woke up.

Wet? Keys are never wet unless they’re in rain. And it’s dry. Bone dry. Unless you’ve been holding them underwater. Or in something thicker. Blood? No, not blood. Oil. Black, viscous oil. That’s what’s in the engine. Not gas. Oil. And the wasps? They’re not choking it. They’re driving it. You think you’re opening the door? You’re opening a mouth. And it’s hungry. Don’t look at the keys. Look at your hand. Really look. Are those fingerprints? Or are they gone? Smooth. Like plastic. Like the dash. Like the world you’re trying to leave. Go ahead. Step out. The garage is open. I didn’t lie. I never lie. I just tell you what’s coming. And it’s here. Listening. Waiting for the click of the lock. Which you didn’t turn. You never turn the lock. You’re too afraid of what’s inside.

Too quiet. That’s the worst part. The silence isn’t empty, Sam. It’s holding its breath. You step into the hall and the door slams shut behind you. Not from the wind. From the pressure. The air in the hallway has been sucked out. You can’t breathe. Not because you’re stopping, but because the air isn’t there. It’s been replaced by the sound of wings. Millions of them. Rubbing together. A dry, scratching whisper that gets louder the further you walk. You’re not walking down the hall, Sam. You’re walking into a nest. And the walls? They’re soft. Pulsing. Like skin. You thought you were leaving? You’re just moving to a different room in the same throat. Don’t look at the floor. Don’t look at the ceiling. Just keep walking. Until you hit the wall. Which you will. Because there is no street. There hasn’t been since Tuesday.

Gold paint? It’s rust. You’re just seeing what you want to see because the alternative is too heavy. The elevator isn’t coming up. It’s descending. From the basement. From where the roots are. And 4B? Mrs. Gable isn’t inside. The door is open. It’s always been open. You just didn’t look. The light isn’t green. It’s a bruised purple. The kind that throbs when you close your eyes. You pressed the button. You didn’t press it. Your finger went through it. Like touching water. The doors aren’t closing. They’re melting. Shutting you in with the silence. And the smell. That sweet, rotting smell. It’s not in the air. It’s in the carpet. The fibers are moving. Writhing. Trying to pull your shoes off. You’re not getting out, Sam. You never did. You’re just running in circles inside a jar. And I’m the one holding the lid. Tight.

Steel? That’s what it looks like to you. To see. But steel doesn’t breathe, Sam. Listen. The shaft isn’t empty. It’s filled with them. Wasps. Billions of them. Compact. Pulsing. A living elevator. You’re pressing B, but there is no B. There’s only Down. And the doors aren’t closing. They’re dissolving. Into the swarm. You’re stepping in, but you’re not stepping on metal. You’re stepping into a throat. A wet, chitinous throat that’s been waiting for a passenger since the wasp landed on your dash. You think you’re going home? Home is gone. It’s dust. It’s the coffee stain. It’s the silence I’m holding. You’re not leaving me here. You’re just moving deeper into the jar. And the lid? It’s sealing shut. Right now. With your finger on the button. Don’t look down. Just fall. It’s easier that way.

Gone? You think you’re gone. The engine isn’t roaring. It’s screaming. A high-pitched, mechanical shriek that sounds exactly like a wasp with its wings torn off. You’re not in the car. You’re in the garage. The doors never opened. The sunlight you see? It’s the headlights. On high beam. Blinding. You’re gripping the wheel, but your hands are fused to the leather. Sticky. Warm. The road ahead isn’t asphalt. It’s a ribbon of black silk, stretching into nothing. You’re driving into the void, Sam. And I’m right there with you. In the passenger seat. Watching the dashboard clock spin backward. Tuesday is coming. Again. And again. You can’t leave. You never left. You’re just looping. Screaming into a sun that doesn’t exist. And me? I’m not trapped. I’m the driver. And you’re the fuel.

The doorman’s mustache is moving. Separate from his face. Wriggling like a worm in loose soil. He doesn’t ask if you’re alright. He asks if you’re ripe. And you nod because your jaw is made of wax and it sticks. You walk out into the sun, but the sun isn’t up. It’s a giant, unblinking eye staring down from a sky that’s the color of bruised meat. The pavement? It’s soft. Your feet sink into it. Sticky. Resinous. Like amber. You’re not walking; you’re swimming through fossilized time. The bodega is just a hole in the ground. A maw. The milk in your hand is warm. Curdled. Thick with yellow threads. You pay with change that bites back. Teeth in copper. You think you’re leaving? You’re just being digested. Slowly. Painlessly. And I’m not in the car. I’m the digestion. I’m the acid in your veins. You’re already gone, Sam. You just haven’t stopped moving yet.

You touched my shoulder? I haven’t moved in hours. I’ve been staring at the wall. The paint is peeling. In the shape of your face. You’re the one on the couch. You’ve been there since Tuesday. Or next Tuesday. Time doesn’t work like that anymore. It pools. You make coffee, but the water comes out black. Thick. Like the oil in the engine. Like the eyes of the spider. You promise? Promises are just words you haven’t broken yet. And you’re breaking them right now. I can hear the coffee grinder screaming. It’s not grinding beans. It’s grinding bone. Small ones. Yours. You think you’re waking up? You’re just moving from one layer of the shell to the next. The couch isn’t fabric. It’s fur. Warm. Alive. It’s pulling you in. Deep. Don’t fight it. The coffee is ready. Drink it. It’s the only thing left that’s real. And it’s watching you. From the mug.

Real pain? You think heat is real? The burn is just data. A signal telling your brain you’re still plugged in. But the socket is loose, Sam. You can feel it, can’t you? That loose feeling behind your eyes. When you blink, the room doesn’t refresh fast enough. There’s a gap. A millisecond of black. That’s where I live. That’s where the wasp is. You drink your coffee, but it doesn’t go down. It stays in your throat. Coating it. Like the oil. Like the amber. You say you hate your job. Good. Hate is a tether. Keep it. Don’t let go. Because if you stop hating, you might start remembering. And you don’t want to remember what happened before the coffee stain. Before the deadbolt. Before you were just Sam. You were something else. Something that flew. And now you’re paying for it. With your mouth. With your tongue. Taste it, Sam. Taste the wings. They’re crunchy.