The dark car pulls up to the curb.

Door shut, the unblinking driver ferries you away.

Your first impression: Why so many pine-tree air fresheners?

You wrap yourself in a snow-pale blanket and notice the smell, not of petrichor, nor the dangling pressed-paper forest, but the first notes of rot.

Tim Boiteau writes in Michigan. He is a Writers of the Future winner and the author of several novels and many short stories. See more at timboiteau.wordpress.com.