Foe Two headlights. I wake to the sight of them. Odd because of the distinct green tint. Not the usual white headlights you see around here. I spot them through the window, at the end of the lane. I must have been in a kind of quasi slumber; an after-dinner daze brought on by a full stomach and the evening heat. I blink several times, attempting to focus. There's no warning, no explanation. I can't hear the car from here. I just open my eyes and see the green lights. It's like they appeared out of nowhere, shaking me from my daze. They are brighter than most headlights, glaring from between the two dead trees at the end of the lane. I don't know the precise time, but it's dark. It's late. Too late for a visitor. Not that we get many of them. We don't get visitors. Never have. Not out here. I stand, stretch my arms above my head. My lower back is stiff. I pick up the open bottle of beer that's beside me, walk from my chair straight ahead several steps to the window. My shirt is unbuttoned, as it often is at this time of night. Nothing ever feels simple in this heat. Everything requires an effort. I'm waiting to see if, as I think, the car will stop, reverse back onto the road, continue on, and leave us alone, as it should. But it doesn't. The car stays where it is; the green lights are pointing my way. And then, after a long hesitation or reluctance or uncertainty, the car starts moving again, toward the house. You expecting anyone? I yell to Hen. "No," she calls down from upstairs. Of course she's not. I don't know why I asked. We've never had anyone show up at this time of night. Not ever. I take a swig of beer. It's warm. I watch as the car drives all the way up to the house and pulls in beside my truck. Well, you better come down here, I call again. Someone's here. Excerpted from Foe by Iain Reid All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.