"We just really need to nip this in the bud," Mark huffed, signaling his left turn. "Honestly, I wonder if it's a sign of mental illness - this whole preoccupation with a zombie apocalypse." "Could be," Karen fretted, chewing her bottom lip, "but - especially if it IS, we need to go carefully. It may be hard to reason with her." "True, but I think a dose of reality is needed here!" Mark countered, tense (and turning again). "I mean - she's offering machete sharpening services with a discount for people in the neighborhood. Big ol' picture of a zombie horde. IT WAS IN THE PAPER!" "Calm down," Karen cautioned. "We can't just arrive at her house and have you ranting; that won't help." "Jeeeeeeesus," Mark whispered, and Karen glanced over to comfort him, but he was staring out of the window with his mouth hanging open. People with machetes wrapped in paper, fabric, towels (and even pillowcases) formed a line from Debbie's sharpening kiosk down the street and around over three blocks. "I don't think this is our intervention moment," Karen whispered, sinking low in the passenger seat.