To dissever the drudgery of my days, I started taking evening walks and after my fourth or fifth something strange struck me: the emptiness. Nobody walked their dogs. Took out their trash. No silhouettes painted against curtains, entertaining neighbors over hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. It wasn't even late. Nine thirty or ten. You’d think I’d see someone. Anyone. But no, I never encountered a soul.

          After a while, my curiosity overcame my fear, and I snuck up to their windows to peek in. There'd be furniture. Couches. Recliners. Lamps. Lights would be on, but there was never anyone inside. No dinner on the table. Not even a blanket out of place. At first, I thought maybe it was a coincidence. Every time I looked, the inhabitants were in the other room, just outside eyeshot. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Five. Six. Seven times in a row.

          Finally, flummoxed, I entered one. The door was unlocked. An alarm system didn't blare out in warning. The couch was pristine, brand new. The television wasn't plugged in. The bar stools wrapped in plastic. The kitchen had a fridge but no other appliances. Bedrooms devoid of beds. I went into three houses total. All of them the same.

          Where was everyone? During the day, I see people. I work with them. I wait in line with them. But when the sun goes down, and I venture out for my nightly walk, they vanish.

          Perhaps, I wonder, someone has been lying to us. There aren't that many people in the world. Maybe there used to be, but something terrible happened, and they’d rather the ones left behind all forgot.

          Sometimes, I pretend to be them. The ones who disappeared. Watch TV shows that will never air. Play games that will never be played. I’ll still be there when the sun rises, but none of them have bloomed back into existence. I return home. I shower. I change. I go to my desk. I fill out my reports. I send my emails. Attend my meetings, then I return, yearning for sundown.

          Tonight, I find a new house. I’ve never visited this part of town before. New construction. Skinny trees held in place by iron poles. The sod checkered and recently laid. It looks out of place—a mountain cabin lost in the southern plains. Inside are wood floors, woven tapestries, deep leather couches, a stone fireplace, vaulted ceilings. There's a fire burning. The flames lick the air hot.

          I sit on the couch for a while, the leather molding around my body like a well-oiled glove, and pretend to read a book that couldn't be read. It's nice here. Much nicer than any other house I’ve been to. Deer-hide rug. Elk antlers mounted on the wall. I feel like an aristocrat, smoking a pipe that couldn't be smoked.

          The chapter done, I wash my hands with water that would not run and cook a meal that would not be eaten. Something creamy. Something decadent. Lobster fettuccine. Enough for the whole family: Mom, Dad, Grandma June, Luke, Papa George, Boog, and Lace. Enough for them to go back for seconds.

          They wait for me outside on the patio, laughing around the chiminea, their fleece jackets smelling like cedar smoke. Their voices are muted through the walls, but they are undeniable. They tell polyphonic stories of years past, card games lost, car crashes that never happened. No longer the victims of death or dereliction, but when I go to summon them for dinner, to taste my succulent meal, they’re nowhere to be found, their voices vanished, and I am once again alone.

          But that is okay. I can live their lives for them, slip their skin over mine until I hide my hollowed self.