Early twilight swelled with the sound of a million invisible cicadas as Tom doused a pile of charcoal with lighter fluid and groped in his pockets for the matches. Across the short chain link fence he could see his neighbor, Bob, mowing his lawn. Tom waved with one hand as he fished the small matchbook out of his front pocket with the other. He dropped a lit match into the grill and stepped back, watching the growing yellow-orange flames leap into the air and swallow the charcoal. Entranced by the fire, Tom didn’t notice the long stream of saliva dripping from the darkness behind him.

Bob’s lawnmower sputtered to a stop, and he walked over to the fence. “You here about the Devin’s dog?”
Tom flinched. “No. What happened?”
“The cops said it was probably a raccoon, maybe a whole gang. Damn, they made a mess.” Bob leaned across the fence. “You grilling something good tonight?” he asked.
“The girls are out, so I figured I needed to fix dinner for myself.” Tom smiled crookedly and moved toward his back door.
“You still on that crazy diet?”
Tom stopped with the doorknob in his hand, clenched his teeth, but thought carefully about his response. Bob’s wife, Maria, always gossiped with Susan; he would have to play this one carefully—he would lie. “Yeah, I’m just grilling up a piece of salmon tonight. Lots of Omega-3s, good for the cholesterol levels, y’know.” Tom looked down, not at Bob, and the small puddle of saliva caught his eye, a glossy splotch on the ground in the fading twilight. He stared quizzically for a moment, but his trance was broken by Bob’s booming sarcasm.
“Salmon, right.” Bob chuckled and with a quick growl his lawnmower came back to life.

Tom hurried inside, just noticing a small scratching sound, like squirrels skittering across the roof. “Damn varmints,” he muttered to himself. He opened his refrigerator, pulled out a package wrapped in white butcher’s paper, and unwrapped a thick red KC strip—a beautifully marbled specimen that seemed to fill the kitchen with an intoxicating scent of cold, raw meat. He couldn’t help but admire the steak for a moment before dropping it in a glass pan, mixing the marinade, and pouring the fragrant brown liquid over the beautiful cut. When the phone rang, he jumped—caught in the act.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hey honey.”
Tom winced at his wife’s voice. “Susan, hey, look—how’s your mom?” His heart beat a little too fast, mutinous at his indiscretion.
“She’s going to be okay. False alarm really. I’ll be home tomorrow. You doing okay? Angie?”
“She’s at Dana’s place for the sleepover. I’m a bachelor tonight.” Tom laughed, but stopped quickly when he realized he didn’t want to reveal his hand.
“So what’s on the menu, bachelor number one?”
Shit, Tom thought, it’s like she can read my goddamn mind. “Oh, just a nice piece of fish—salmon,” he lied.
“Good. Remember what Doc Carlton said—no…”
“…red meat. Gotcha. No problem honey.” Tom started to sweat despite his evasion; unconsciously, he sucked in his gut.
“Really Tom. Your heart.”
“I know, trust me, okay?”
“Love you babe,” Susan said.
“Love you too.” With a click of the receiver he was free. After slipping the phone back into its cradle, the house suddenly seemed very quiet and dark.

Tom hurried outside to check the grill’s progress. The coals glowed with a subtle red intensity in the collecting gloom, and Tom knew the time was just about right to sear that beautiful steak. Directly over the back door of the house, a dark, sinewy thing with long limbs and razor claws moved from the roof onto the brick wall, hidden by the shadows cast by a large oak. The thing knew the smell of smoldering charcoal, and its thick tongue rolled in its mouth while its jagged teeth clicked open and shut. It hung on the wall close to Tom, but Tom was oblivious, focused on the dense smell of the charcoal and the rhythmic undulation of those cicadas.

Returning inside, Tom gathered his meat and grabbed barbeque tongs from a kitchen drawer. The sky seemed to deepen a few shades too quickly by the time he returned outside with the steak and utensils, and with his hands full, he forgot to flip on the exterior light switch. Probably better, he thought as he moved in darkness on the back patio, guided by the red heat of the coals, this way Bob won’t see the steak, rat me out. The thick cut sizzled delightfully as Tom dropped it on the grill, coals hissing and spitting with drops of fat and grease. With his ears focused on the cooking meat, Tom didn’t hear the sound of the thing’s claws scraping across the brick wall as it inched closer behind him. The phone rang, breaking Tom’s spell.
“Goddamn it!” Tom quickly flipped the steak and rushed inside, the sudden outburst and movement temporarily sending the thing up the wall away from the door.
“Hello,” Tom said, but his attention remained with his meal, the first red meat he would have in weeks, and he always liked his steak medium rare.
“Daddy,” Angie said, “can you tell me Mom’s cell number.”
“What do you need—never mind, yeah, it’s 424-4132.”
“Thanks.” His daughter noticed something rushed in his voice and asked, “You doing okay?”
“Yeah sweetie, enjoy, g’night.” Tom tossed the phone on the counter and hurried back to the patio.

The steak was gone. The coals continued to radiate a faded orange heat, but the meat was missing. Tom reached inside the back door and flipped the patio lights on, but no help. “Someone stole my goddamn steak,” he muttered, his eyes surveying his backyard for the bandit. Bob’s mower sat silently under the now dark sky, and Tom saw no sign of anyone else.
A small drop of something caught his eye, and he looked down to see another pool of saliva illuminated by the porch light, this one swimming with grease squeezed from the half-cooked steak. “What the hell…” Tom started, and then stopped as a string of warm spittle touched his shoulder. He looked up into the black gaze of the thing—definitely no raccoon—torn bits of red meat hanging from its stained and crooked teeth, grotesque and twisted in the dim light. The steak, it seemed, had only been an appetizer.

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