The next day, I found fur.

  At first, I didn't understand what I was looking at. I thought it was some kind of dust clump or matted lint from a blanket. But when I bent down and picked it up with two fingers, it became clear—no.

  It was fur.

  Black. Dense. Soft. Short, thick undercoat at the base, with longer, smooth hairs on top. The tuft was neat, as if torn out or caught on something.

  My mind automatically went to rats—and I immediately grimaced.

  I had never seen fur like that on rats. Maybe there are different kinds? Big sewer ones, with thick coats? The thought made my skin crawl. Not fear—disgust. Cold and sticky.

  I threw the clump into the trash, washed my hands thoroughly, and decided: that's it. No more postponing.

  It was time to deal with the repeller.

  It was exactly where I had left it—on the small table in the living room. The box looked strange: far too serious for such a small thing. The packaging listed everything at once.

  Against rodents.

  Against martens.

  Against rats.

  The question marks in my head multiplied.

  "Well then," I said out loud. "Let's experiment."

  I plugged it into the socket. No sound. No light. No visible effect. An absolutely innocent object—one that would either save my house or simply warm the air.

  For the sake of a clean experiment, I placed a small plate with sweet cookies in the corner of the room. A voluntary sacrifice. If someone decided to come back—let's see what they choose: risk or dessert.

  After a while, a message came from Phil.

  He asked how I was doing, whether everything was all right. Then, casually, he asked if I was going to buy a real Christmas tree this year.

  I replied that I was thinking of getting a live one—but in a pot, with roots. So I could plant it in the garden later.

  Phil was delighted.

  He wrote that he and Alexander had just been discussing the tree. They wanted to decorate one in the garden, and maybe put a similar one inside—also in a pot. Then plant it in the front yard.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Because it's kind of bare," he wrote.

  He wants to plant it as densely as the backyard.

  I smiled as I read it.

  Phil was happy. You could feel it even through the screen.

  I had barely put the phone down when the doorbell rang.

  Not just a ring—a whole sequence.

  Ring, pause, ring. Then another.

  And then—a voice.

  "HELLO, MISS SHRIMP!"

  "IT'S AMANDA!"

  "AMANDA FOX!"

  "MOLLY, ARE YOU HOME?!"

  I looked through the peephole.

  Of course—it was her.

  Amanda Fox stood on the doorstep in all her glory. Red-haired, long-nosed, wearing a coat that had seen better days, with the expression of someone who hadn't come for nothing. Beside her, on a leash, sat her dog—small, nervous, and strikingly similar to its owner. The same alertness. The same readiness to interfere.

  Amanda peered into the window next to the door, shading her eyes with her hand, trying to see what was going on inside.

  "Just a second," I said and opened the door.

  "Finally!" she exclaimed, stepping inside without pause. "I already thought you'd gone away! Or..."—she lowered her voice—"or that you couldn't open the door."

  I invited her in and made coffee. Amanda sat down but didn't relax. She scanned everything—the walls, the floor, the table, the corners. Like an inspector. Or like someone looking for confirmation of her suspicions.

  "Tell me, Molly," she began quietly, leaning toward me. "You know Phil quite well, don't you?"

  "Fairly well," I answered cautiously.

  "And do you know who that man living with him is?"

  I wasn't surprised. I'd been expecting the question.

  "His second cousin," I said. "Alexander."

  Amanda narrowed her eyes.

  "Exactly," she said. "Second cousin. And don't you find that... strange?"

  "In what way?"

  "In every way," she said, glancing around as if the walls might be listening. "When I saw him the first time, he was looking for Phil's house. Walking down the street, checking the names on the mailboxes. I asked who he was looking for. And he said Phil's name as Pylyp. I already told you this before," Amanda said insistently. "Py-lyp. Not Phil."

  I remembered the story. It all fit.

  "Then I looked it up online," she continued. "It's a Ukrainian name. And Phil never said that he... well... had another name. And that man gave a slightly different last name too. Not the one on the mailbox."

  She leaned even closer.

  "Don't you think it could be... someone who isn't who he claims to be?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  Amanda dropped her voice to a whisper.

  "Spies."

  I almost laughed—but stopped myself.

  "And one more thing," she added, now louder. "Someone in our house is eating sweets. Cereal. Chocolate cereal. My husband is in a panic. He's afraid of rats. Afraid of infections. I hear things too—at night. But no one has seen them."

  She threw her hands up.

  "I thought rats had multiplied because of the Brookfelds' chicken coop—but they haven't had chickens for a long time. Just the shed left.

  Maybe it's Jenkins' cats? No way. Cats don't need sweets. And how would they even get in?"

  She looked at me intently.

  "You have it too, don't you?"

  I glanced at the corner of the room where the plate of cookies stood.

  At the repeller.

  At Amanda.

  "It seems so," I said. "We're not the only ones."

  Amanda nodded with satisfaction.

  "Exactly," she said. "That's what I thought."

  We fell silent.

  Amanda's dog let out a quiet yip.

  "All right," Amanda said, getting up. "I just wanted to warn you. If anything—we should report it. To the proper place."

  "Of course," I said.

  She left as noisily as she had arrived.

  When the door closed, the house became quiet again.

  I looked at the cookies.

  They were untouched.

  For now.

  "Well then," I said out loud. "Let's see who you really are."

  I remained standing in the middle of the living room and suddenly realized that Amanda's words weren't leaving me alone.

  They spun in my head, clung to one another, forming unpleasant connections. Like an itchy thought you can't brush away. Pylyp. A different last name. Politeness. A closed door. A stranger who had entered Phil's life too easily.

  "Enough," I told myself.

  Amanda loves drama. She always has. Half her stories outlive the facts. And yet... she didn't invent the name. And she didn't invent the fact that the man was looking for Phil's house and calling him something else.

  Spies? Come on.

  I decided not to draw conclusions on my own.

  The best thing would be to ask Phil himself. Calmly. Without suspicion. Casually. About the name. About the relative...

  Not now.

  Later. When there's a moment.