Ivy was afraid of number 4.
Sometimes she dreamed about it: distant figures whispering its name in warning.
She was certain her death would involve 4 somehow.
She stopped leaving home, afraid she'd come across a rogue number 4 bus, a murderous four-year-old, or slip on four carelessly dropped tetrafish.
When April rolled around, Ivy waited in agony for the fourth, certain that was the day forecast for her demise.
It came and went.
Feeling foolish, and yet relieved, Ivy finally walked outside. It'd been months since she'd felt fresh air.
It's unfortunate how quickly golf courses pop up nowadays.