Part 1
Alex looks blankly at the peeling yellow paint on the door in front of him, and he thinks about what it would be like to run his finger down it.
When he was a boy he knocked on his neighbors' doors selling candies to raise funds for his school.
Somewhere in Africa a cheetah crouches unseen in a field of tall grass.
Alex scratches at a scab above his brow. Don't pick the scab.
If you pick the scab before it's healed you'll have a big nasty scar.
The cheetah smells the wind and scans the horizon.
Alex rings the doorbell again. Then he runs his finger in a long horizontal stroke across the width of the door. He looks at his hand and there are flecks of yellow. Rubbing his fingers together doesn't seem to help much. Transfixed, he picks at a hanging strip of paint. It peels off the wood like dead skin from a sun-burnt back.
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