Tuesday, September 2, 2014


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.

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