The truck stopped in front of her house.

A man got out.

Then another man climbed from the passenger side.

They walked to the back of the truck and began unloading buckets.

Denise suddenly stopped breathing normally.

One man carried paint toward her driveway.

The other followed with rollers.

I looked at her.

“You know them.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I said I don’t.”

On the screen, the two men began painting Denise’s car.

They moved quickly.

One worked on the driver’s side.

The other took the passenger side.

They covered the windows first.

Then the doors.

The hood.

The trunk.

Denise stared at the phone.

“This is insane.”

Then something happened that neither of us expected.

A third person stepped out of the pickup truck.

A woman.

She stood underneath a streetlight long enough for the camera to catch her face.

Denise made a strange choking sound.