Cecil’s not been himself. It’s consuming Carlos, that single insidious thought like a wasp’s egg in his brain, hatched and eating him alive from the inside. It’s 11:30pm and he’s driving through Night Vale towards the radio station, pebbles rattling against the tires that can’t move fast enough over the desert sands.
Not tonight, Carlos. Don’t come. All will be well in the morning, don’t worry. But Carlos isn’t going to listen.He’s seen it in Cecil, how listless he’s become over the last few days, how quiet, how that haunting dust devil voice of his whirling over Night Vale has become flat and monotone, how his movements have become stiff and slow and he wraps himself up in layers of clothing in the dead of a sweltering summer there’s something wrong, there’s something very wrong.
Carlos parks, the tires grating on gravel. The radio station is open. He goes inside, his quickening footsteps echoing down the ha