Two a.m., tinny screech over the baby monitor.
Jim fairly ran into Robbie's room. The three-year-old lay twined in sheets, snoring.
"Jim?" his wife's voice crackled over the speaker.
"Robbie's fine." Jim weaved into the living room, yawning. Then frowned.
A chill curled around his ankles, front jalousie windows cracked an inch. Outside, sprinklers chattered, and beyond the security lights' cast, a pair of hunched shadows slid, one seemingly dragging the other.
In his son's room again, Jim knelt, saw damp dirt in the whorls of a heel.
The boy sat up, squinting. "Daddy? What's wrong?"
Jim had no answer.