A Cloud of Deep Violet

At 9:15 on Thursday morning, John walked out to his front porch. Morning sunlight cut across the cul-de-sac, catching the damp dew on his lawn. He set the medium-sized brown box beside the welcome mat, right in the center of the doorbell camera’s lens.

He stepped back inside, pulled the blinds shut, and opened the live video feed on his phone.

At 9:40 a.m., the delivery driver dropped the decoy box on John’s front porch. He tapped his scanner, snapped a picture, and walked back to his brown van.

John sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open, streaming the door camera’s live feed. Across the street, George was out in his driveway, pretending to check the tire pressure on his riding mower.

At 10:14, a white Escalade rolled down the cul-de-sac. It slowed near John’s curb, pulled into his driveway, and stopped.

Sophia stepped out. She wore her bright pink blazer and dark oversized sunglasses. She didn’t look around. She walked up the two concrete steps to the porch with the smooth speed of a meter maid doing rounds.

Her hand reached down. She grabbed the box by the side flaps and lifted.

The line pulled tight. The spring tripped.

A dull thump echoed off the porch walls. A violet cloud burst from the seams of the cardboard.

Sophia shrieked, dropping the box.

The pressurized dye coated her palms, splashed up her forearms, and freckled her jawline. A fine purple spray drifted over her pink blazer and clung to her hair.

She backed away, stumbling on the top step. Her heel caught the concrete edge, but she caught herself against the house wall. When she pulled her right hand back, a smeared purple palm print stayed on the beige vinyl siding.

“Oh god,” she gasped, her voice shrill and cracked. “Oh, no, no, no.”

She grabbed her hem to wipe her face, spreading a wide magenta smear across her chin and left cheek. She looked down at her hands, turning them over. They were solid, bright indigo-violet from the wrist down.

She panicked, lunging back toward her SUV. She grabbed the driver’s side handle with both hands, leaving twin purple streaks across the polished white paint. She threw herself into the seat, slammed the door, and reversed out of the driveway so fast her rear tires chirped against the asphalt.

John didn’t move from his chair. On the laptop screen, the video loop replayed the blast in high-definition clarity.

Through the window, he saw George stand up straight beside his lawnmower. George wiped his hands on an old rag, took out his cell phone, and pointed the camera down the street toward Sophia’s house.

Across the cul-de-sac, Mrs. Chen’s front blinds twitched open.