"This is really about my wife," said the man with the parasite gnawing on his skull. "I'll let her explain."
He nodded to the chair next to him, where absolutely no one was sitting, then waited in silence like he was letting his 'wife' speak.
The man appeared to be in his early fifties and had the kind of sad, droopy features that made him look like God hadn't finished inflating him. He had shown up at my apartment two minutes ago saying he'd been dropped off by the police, who apparently hadn't stuck around to explain. He was now sitting at my kitchen table with me, Amy, and the empty chair, John leaning on the counter and fidgeting with the red, white, and blue novelty cowboy hat in his hands.