Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

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Sometimes it is difficult to know how to protect the very young from a sickness far more devastating than a virus.

Heat quivered in the town, concentrating in the short business block of brick and concrete. Across the street, the maple trees and green summer grass of the town square breathed humidity into the air, bringing sweat to the faces of the men repairing the bandstand. They worked silently, grimly, covering the scars and discolorations with fresh white paint. A carpenter finished nailing a new step into place, and a man in paint-spattered coveralls — he was the town’s mayor — leaned forward with dripping brush to paint in the fresh wood.

The streets were almost empty, the public places — the theater, the library, the Community Park — all closed. In the residential areas the doors were shut, die front yards deserted. There wasn’t a child in sight. The hot summer day hung muted and motionless. Only the shimmering heat moved and, mingling with it, emanating from behind the grim faces and closed doors, rose the stifling, unwholesome effluvium of fear.

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