The man stares back, still smiling.
"Hey, that's not nice! Not at all," he chides.
You speak into the door, "Look, I feel for you, I do, but if you've got it...it's too dangerous."
The man balks. Stooped shoulders sway as he brews a response. His chest quakes.
"Got it?" he asks, staring back into the peephole. "Reckon I do. All you folks huddled up inside, nice and cozy..." He smiles wider. "How about I give you a reason to stay in there?"
The man spits at the peephole. A splotchy yellow drips down the glass bulb. "Scary bug. Scary-scary-bug. Might just have to, oh, I don't know, cough on the door knob?"
He hacks into his hands and rubs them together. "Yeah, how about a little here, and here, and here...how about everywhere?"
The man rubs virus all over the door, the handle, everything.
You shake your head. Am I really seeing this? People did this in markets, early on. Coughed on food, spit on people. Felonies aplenty. Coating a home in virus? What's the charge for that?
"Put yourself in my shoes," you try. "I don't want to die, all right?"
Again, your thoughts stray, waiting for the man's answer. A copy of Life After Life sits nearby next to your cell phone and you wonder if you somehow catch it, will you live again?
"Safe in there, right?" the man says. "Open that door and, well...things might change."
He steps away from the peep hole and makes the rounds to your front windows, side windows, back door, garage. Every pane of glass, every handle, every window latch, covered in sick.