Free Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler

were three other people in the house, so I would have to be careful. At least everyone was asleep.
    I found a window to the gunman’s bedroom, but it was closed and locked. I could think of no way to open it quietly. The doors were also locked. I went around the house and found no open door or window. I could get into the house easily, but not quietly.
    I went back to the gunman’s bedroom window—a big window. I pulled my jacket sleeve down over my hand and closed my hand around the sleeve opening so that my fist was completely covered. This was made easier by the fact that the jacket, like the rest of my clothing, was a little too big. With one quick blow, I broke the window near where I saw the latch. Then I ducked below the windowsill and froze, listening. If people were alerted by the noise, I wanted to know at once.
    There was no change in anyone’s breathing except the gunman’s. His snoring stopped, then began again. I waited, not wanting there to be too many alien sounds too close together. Then I reached in, turned the window latch, and raised the window. The window opened easily, silently. I stepped in and closed it after me.
    At that point, the man in the bed stopped snoring again. The colder air from outside had probably roused him.
    As quickly as I could, I crossed the room to the bed, turned his face to the pillow, grabbed his hands, dropped my weight onto him, and bit him.
    He bucked and struggled, and I worried that if he kept it up, he would either buck me off or force me to break his bones. But I had already bitten him once. He should be ready to listen to me.
    “Be still,” I whispered, “and be quiet.”
    And he obeyed. He lay still and silent while I took a little more of his blood. Then I sat up and looked around. His door was closed, but there were people in the room next to his. I had heard their breathing when I was outside—two people. On the other hand, because his closet and theirs separated the two rooms, I could barely hear them now. Maybe they wouldn’t hear us.
    “Sit up and keep your voice low,” I said to the gunman. “What’s your name?”
    He put his hand to his neck. “What did you do?” he whispered.
    What’s your name?” I repeated.
    “Raleigh Curtis.”
    “Who else is in this house?”
    “My brother. My sister-in-law. Their kid.”
    “So is this their house?”
    “Yeah. I got laid off my job, so they let me stay here.”
    “All right. Why did you shoot me, Raleigh?”
    He squinted, trying to see me in the dark, then reached for his bedside lamp.
    “No,” I said. “No light. Just talk to me.”
    “I didn’t know what you were,” he said. “You just shot out of nowhere. I thought you were some kind of wild cat.” He paused. “Hey, do that thing again on my neck.”
    I shrugged. Why not? He would definitely be sick the next day, but I didn’t care. I took a little more of his blood while he lay back trembling and writhing and whispering over and over, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
    When I stopped, he begged, “Do it some more. Jesus, that’s the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life.”
    “No more now,” I said. “Talk to me. You said you shot me because I scared you.”
    “Yeah. Where’d you come from like that?”
    “Why were you aiming your rifle at the man? He didn’t scare you.”
    “Had to.”
    “Why?”
    He frowned and rubbed his head. “Had to.”
    “Tell me why.”
    He hesitated, still frowning. “He was there. He shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t his property.”
    “It wasn’t yours either.” This was only a guess, but it seemed reasonable.
    “He shouldn’t have been there.”
    “Why was it your job to drive him off or kill him?” Silence.
    “Tell me why.” After three bites, he should have been eager to tell me. Instead, he almost seemed to be in pain.
    He held his head between his hands and whimpered. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “I want to, but I can’t. My head hurts.”
    Something occurred to