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CHAPTER FOUR

  Doors

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “Well look at you two,” said the paunchy waitress at the Salt and Pepper Diner. Her red hair was curled and a pair of sunglasses was stuck in it as if she planned to leave work to enjoy the sunny day any moment now.

  “Hi, Grace,” said Desmond.

  “Hi, Mrs. Love,” said Raymond.

  “Hi sweetie,” Grace rubbed the boy’s buzz cut as she walked up to their booth. “Now, isn’t it a school day? What are you doing here now? Did school let out early or are you playing hooky?”

  Desmond chuckled, slow and uncomfortably. He was a simple man, a mechanic at a garage a few miles out of town, and he lacked social graces. He wore all denim, with only a glimpse of the white t-shirt beneath his buttoned top. It was as if his entire identity revolved around his job, and even when not at work he strived to maintain a semblance of the uniform. “Well, Grace, I got Ray out early today. We’re on our way to our cabin in Forsythe for a little fishing over spring break. Ray’s been pretty excited about the trip. He didn’t even want to stop for food, but I told him I wasn’t hitting the road before stopping in to see our favorite waitress.”

  “Is that right?” she looked down at Raymond.

  “Yes ma’am.” Raymond was a sweet boy, but she wasn’t sure if he was simple-minded like his father or not. They looked similar, with thick midsections and squat heads, noses that were pushed in and jowls that jutted forth, but Raymond’s bright blue eyes were a defining attribute that contrasted his father’s beady black ones.

  Grace tapped her order pad with a pencil and smirked at Desmond. “You two aren’t planning on getting into any trouble, are you? You’d better not be cheating on me with some strumpet out there, Desmond.” Grace often chided him as if they were an old married couple. Her husband hated how flirtatious she was with patrons, but he was half a state away at a trade show and she needed the tips.

  Both Desmond and Raymond chuckled in an identical manner. Grace adored these two, and had known them for years. It was easy for Desmond’s mannerisms to make people uneasy when they first met him. His disability wasn’t immediately identifiable, which made people nervous around him. However, given time he always proved to be a caring, kind man. Nothing was more important in his life than his son, and he exemplified that with every waking moment. Grace rarely saw the two separated, and they were frequent customers at the Salt and Pepper Diner.

  Desmond also had a daughter, who was older and had fallen in with a bad crowd. She was often a source of angst for Desmond, and was well known throughout town for her drug habit. Desmond, who had inherited a large sum when his parents passed, had bought his daughter a cabin in town to try and keep her near him, but their relationship had crumbled over recent years. Grace thought that the way Desmond doted on Raymond was as recompense for his lost daughter.

  “Don’t worry,” said Desmond. “There’s no one for me but you, Gracie. Right, Ray?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right,” said Grace as she eyed them both suspiciously. “I’ll take your word for it. But you’d better keep an eye on him for me.” She pointed the eraser side of her pencil at Raymond as she talked about Desmond. “He likes to pretend to be a good boy, but you and I know the truth. Don’t we?”

  Raymond snickered and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  “What’s it going to be today?” asked Grace, ready to write down their order. “Same as always?”

  Desmond nodded. “I’ll have the Salisbury steak, and Ray will have the BLT.”

  “Actually,” said Raymond, “could I get the grilled chicken sandwich?”

  Grace looked over at Desmond, surprised at Raymond’s order. “Well, heavens to hogs, the boy’s changing things up on us, Dezy.”

  Desmond looked nervous. “I guess so. His taste buds must be changing or something.”

  “No,” said Raymond. “I just want to try something new.”

  “Juan’s going to have to throw the chicken on the grill, so it might take a few extra minutes,” said Grace. “I’m happy to have you around as long as you’ll stay, but I know you’re in a hurry to get fishing.”

  “That’s okay,” said Raymond as he glanced out the window beside their booth. “We’re too late already. It’s past three. I want to try something different this time.”

  “You got it, kiddo,” said Grace. “Want fries with that? Or are you going to throw me for another loop and order coleslaw?”

  Raymond shook his head and chuckled. “No, ma’am. Fries would be fine. Thank you.”

  “Sodas for both of you?” asked Grace.

  They nodded.

  “All right, boys. Back in a minute.” She sauntered off and stuck her pencil behind her ear. Two plates were already set in the ready window between the counter and the kitchen, under the heat lamps. One was a Salisbury steak and the other a BLT. Grace tapped her palm on the shelf and her rings clattered on the metal, alerting the chef.

  “What’s up, Gracie?” asked Juan as he scraped the grill.

  “The kid wants a chicken sandwich, not a BLT.”

  Juan set the metal scraper on the edge of the flat grill and walked to the window. “No shit?”

  Grace stuck her ticket on the clip wheel above the divide and spun it for him. It was the only ticket on the wheel and he snatched it away to look it over. “What do you know about that?”

  “Times they are a changing,” said Grace.

  Juan looked as if he was about to respond, but then stared at something over Grace’s shoulder. “What the heck?”

  Grace turned to see what he was looking at. The street outside had been blanketed by a green fog. It was as thick as smoke and wafted over the street as if made of liquid. “Holy hell,” said Grace.

  “Do you know what that is?” asked Juan. “A fire or something?”

  “Not sure, but I saw something like this once. Back when I lived in Gary, Indiana, there was a junkyard that caught fire and all the tires burned up; sent a big cloud of green smoke over the whole damn place. Dollars to donuts the old Sanchez yard caught fire.”

  A blast of green electricity rippled across the air outside, sticking to light poles and dancing along the edge of a UPS truck down the road. The fog billowed and puffed, encompassing more of the view every second.

  Juan cursed and then said, “That’s no tire fire.”

  Dogs barked and small shadows raced through the fog, as if children were running by. “What in the blazes?” asked Grace as she stared out into the thickening mist.

  “Call the cops,” said Desmond as he walked with his son toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Yeah,” said Grace. “Juan, get the police.”

  “I don’t have no phone back here. You call from out there.”

  “God dang it, Juan, the phone’s two feet from you.” Grace walked behind the counter to the white phone beside the door that led to the kitchen. Juan stayed in his window, staring at the bizarre scene on the street. She dialed 911 and then waved at Desmond and Raymond to come stand by her. “Get over here you two, behind the counter.”

  “What do you think’s going on?” asked Desmond as he held his son’s hand and walked around the counter to join Grace. There was a black rubber matt on the ground that was perforated to keep the area behind the counter from getting slippery, but Desmond still slipped on its greasy surface as he walked over it. His palm thudded on the counter as he caught his balance.

  Grace shrugged as she listened to the pre-recorded message from the Widowsfield Emergency Services. “Hell if I know. Probably just some prank or something.”

  “Prank?” Juan’s skepticism came off as rude and demeaning. “Get real, girl. That’s no prank.”

  “Well, darn it Juan, stop just standing around,” said Grace. “Do something to help.”

  “Help with what?” he asked, still standing uselessly behind the window between the kitchen and front end.

  “Lock the dang do
ors or something.”

  “Shit,” he said as if she were being funny. “I’m not going near that door. Looks like the devil farted pure hell out there.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Desmond.

  Grace grinned at him and then turned to sneer at Juan. “Thanks, Dezy. At least we’ve got one man in here.”

  Desmond let go of his son’s hand to head for the door, but heard Raymond begin to rustle the silverware beneath the counter. He saw his son rummaging through the steak knives.

  “It’s all right, kiddo,” said Desmond. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  Raymond held two knives, one in each hand, and looked up calmly at his father. “Yes there is.”

  “Darling,” said Grace as she moved beside Raymond. “There’s nothing to be worried about.” She stood behind the boy and held him up against her waist with her hands crossed over his chest as she kept the phone perched between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m sure it’s just a freak storm or something. Nothing to be scared about. Okay? Nothing to be scared about.” She was clearly terrified.

  “Then why lock the doors?” asked Raymond in a near whisper. They all knew there was something worth fearing in the mist. It was as if there was an innate knowledge bubbling to the surface in all of them.

  Desmond spoke over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “Juan, if there’s a back door you should go lock it.”

  “Yeah, Juan,” said Grace. “Stop being a useless turd and go lock the back door.”

  Desmond turned the lock and Raymond pulled out of Grace’s arms as he screamed, “Dad, get down!”

  “What?” Desmond turned, perplexed.

  A brick flew at the front door from out of the fog. The glass shattered and the brick struck Desmond in the back of the head as shards crashed down around him. He staggered as Juan screamed. The cook’s voice was higher than a man of his girth should possess. Grace dropped the phone and tried to grab Raymond, but the boy was too fast for her. He bounded around the counter, still holding the steak knives, to save his father.

  The brick had broken the upper half of the entrance, and the mist surged in through the hole. Shards of glass broke and fell as the mass moved in, as if the mist carried weight with it. Desmond was on his knees as the crackling green electricity zapped on the metal door behind him. The silhouettes of children in the mist focused on the Salt and Pepper Diner. Dogs barked and growled as the children rushed toward the restaurant.

  “Ray!” Grace cried out for the boy, but didn’t know how else to react. She was dazed, terrified, and frozen in place. The phone at her feet continued to ask for her patience; her call would be answered in the order it was received.

  Desmond crawled toward the counter, and held the back of his bloodied head. Raymond ran past him, into the surging mist. He swiped his knives through the incorporeal mass and the blades sparkled with green electricity.

  “Ray,” said Desmond. “Get away from there.”

  “Sorry, Daddy. I’m fighting back this time.” Raymond stood defiant in the mist, his knives held out at either side as the swirling vapor pooled at his feet.

  The children on the street reached the windows, but the fog was too thick to see their faces. It looked as if the diner had been plunged into a tank of cloudy water. Grace saw mangled, bloody hands pressed against the glass. Blood smeared as the broken, twisted fingers scratched at the windows. She saw a dog’s snout appear where one of the children’s heads should be.

  The shadows of children crowded in front of the diner, but one tall man stood among them. He was impossibly thin, and his arms draped longer than seemed natural. His head shuddered, and Grace could hear the chatter of teeth as he approached. He stood in front of the broken door, but Raymond blocked his entrance. Green light burned behind the crowd, and their shadows danced on the walls.

  “No,” said Raymond.

  Grace felt her throat tighten as the mist began to fill the diner. It was cold and dry. When it brushed against her skin it felt like a bed sheet was covering her. She swiped at it, but it thickened and wrapped around her limbs. She glanced back at Juan, but didn’t see the cook through the divide.

  “I won’t do it,” said Raymond as if conversing with the thin man in the mist, though Grace didn’t hear any response.

  The thin man came closer, and his shoulders rose as his arms bent. She couldn’t see anything more than his silhouette, but knew he was threatening the boy. Raymond turned, tears in his eyes, and stared at his father.

  “The Skeleton Man wants your eyes, Daddy.”

  Desmond croaked, but Grace couldn’t see him. She was trapped behind the counter as the mist thickened around her. She tried to break free, but it constricted her from all angles. When she tried to speak, her voice was lost, just like Desmond’s.

  Juan’s high pitched screams erupted from the back room. He never did lock the back door, and Grace listened to the sound of dogs growling as they tore him apart. She didn’t have to see to understand what was happening as the dogs fought over his flesh.

  Raymond’s knives reflected the green, electric light as he knelt down, out of Grace’s view, to slaughter his father. She could see Raymond’s face, crying and whimpering, as he dug the knife in. Desmond’s legs twitched, but the fog held him down.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Raymond over and over as the blood squirted from the incisions. He stood up and tried to wipe his brow clean on his arm, but just smeared the blood worse. He set his knives on the counter and walked around as Grace watched, helplessly restrained by the tendrils of mist.

  Raymond glanced at her, but then looked away as if ashamed. He took a spoon from the silverware cup under the counter and then returned to his father. Grace didn’t understand what he was doing until she heard the grotesque sound of Raymond scooping his father’s eyes out of his skull. The wet sound was bad enough, but when the spoon collided with the back of Desmond’s eye socket it caused a scraping sound that sent reverberations of fear through Grace. She convulsed, her knees weakened, and she flopped into the mist as if passing out, but was still held aloft.

  Raymond tossed two fleshy lumps into the mist and The Skeleton Man greedily bent to search the ground for them. The monster laughed as he retrieved the eyeballs, and his chattering teeth quickened their pace.

  “That doesn’t make you my Daddy,” said Raymond under his breath. His hands were shaking as he set the spoon on the counter, beside the two bloody knives.

  Then the boy hung his head as his shoulders slunk. He turned, regretfully, and breathed deep when he looked up at Grace. “He’ll let me make it quick.”

  Grace couldn’t respond.

  Raymond seemed to be apologizing by the way he looked at her, forlorn and saddened. “It’ll only hurt for a minute.” He picked up the steak knife and walked around the counter.

  16 Years Later

  March 9th, 2012

  “What did I do?” asked Paul.

  “Just, don’t,” said Alma as she headed for the door. She held her hand up to keep Paul from touching her as she looked away from him. The sight of him sickened her.

  “For Christ’s sake, Alma, two minutes ago you were all smiles. Now you’re treating me like a jerk. What’d I do?”

  “More like who’d you do?” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She glared at him and then flipped him off. “Learn to flush the toilet, asshole.”

  That helped him understand why she was angry. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Fucking low pressure toilet.”

  “Have a good life.” Alma opened the door.

  Paul walked behind her and put his hand on the door to stop it from opening all the way. “Hold up, Alma. You don’t have the right to be mad at me for this.”

  “Excuse me?” She was furious with him for trying to defend himself.

  “You’re the one that walked out on me.”

  “Yeah, and I’m about to do it again. Go ahead and call up your bar
sluts. Tell them the party’s back on.” She forced the door open and a gust of cold air stung her eyes, drawing forth tears that had been threatening to come anyhow.

  “Alma, what about your dad? Are you going home? Come on, babe, don’t be like this.” He walked onto the deck with her as she rushed to leave. “God damn it.”

  She heard him go back inside and then come out again before shutting the door. He was barefoot and wore only a thin t-shirt, jeans, and no coat as he chased her into the gravel parking lot behind the tattoo parlor.

  “What are you doing?” asked Alma. “Go back inside. I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”

  “Fine,” he said from several steps behind. “I’m just going to follow you home to make sure your dad isn’t there.”

  She stopped and glared at him in disapproval. “Oh sure, you’re going to ride your bike with no shoes on. Go back inside and stop being an idiot.”

  “I’m not letting you go home alone. If I let something bad happen to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

  He stood ten feet away from her as they faced off in the lonely lot. The wind gusted again and she saw him shudder, looking pathetic as he stood in the sharp gravel, arms crossed over his thin shirt.

  “Stop it, Paul. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t ride your bike without shoes on, let alone without a coat or helmet. You’re going to get pulled over.”

  He shrugged.

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m not letting you go home alone.”

  She groaned. “Fine. Go get some shoes on at least.”

  “You promise to wait for me?”

  “Yes, for crying out loud, you giant dork. I’ll wait.”

  “Give me your keys.”

  “What?” asked Alma.

  “Give me your keys so I know you won’t take off before I get back.”

  “Paul, just go get some damn shoes on. There’s broken glass all over out here.”

  “Okay, fine, just give me your keys first.” He took a step towards her with his hand outstretched.

  She glanced at the shards of glass mixed in with the gravel between them. She walked to Paul so he didn’t have to cross it. She slammed her keys into his hand. “Hurry up. It’s cold out here.”

  He lifted the keys and tapped the teddy bear keychain. “Glad to see you kept him.”

  “Only because I’m too lazy to get rid of him.”

  Paul grinned. “Liar.”

  “Whatever. Hurry up.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the side of her car. She wasn’t wearing a coat and shivered in the chilly night air.

  Paul ran up the stairs two at a time and Alma took the opportunity to examine the damage on the side of her car. Stephen had slammed her father into the side door with enough force to leave a sizeable dent. She should’ve called her insurance immediately, but she didn’t want to be forced to be around her father any longer than she had to. She feared that if a police report was filed, her father would be given an opportunity to be a part of her life again. As silly as it sounded, even seeing his name on a police report was more contact with him than she wanted. It was better to keep him out of her life entirely.

  Unfortunately, the car was leased, and she would have to get it fixed, which would be expensive. Her deductible was $500, and her bank account was already dangerously close to zero.

  “Crap,” she said in frustration as she passed her palm over the damage. Then she caught sight of a girl standing on the corner, next to the tattoo parlor. She was smoking a cigarette and staring at Alma. She glanced away, pretending not to have been watching.

  The girl was young, thin, and pretty. She had dark hair that was bobbed, and bright red lipstick. Her breasts were too large for her blouse, which was probably on purpose, and her jean skirt was short enough to reveal most of her long legs.

  Alma didn’t need to ask to understand who she was. This was the girl Paul had just kicked out of his bed. Alma knew it by the look of jealousy in the girl’s eyes.

  All of the hatred Alma felt for Paul was transferred to this innocent stranger. She hated the bitch.

  Paul closed his door, drawing Alma’s attention away from the pretty stranger. He bounded down the stairs, his leather boots clopping on the wood, and then threw the keys to Alma. She caught them, which was a minor miracle, and got in her car as Paul got on his bike.

  Alma’s radio was too loud, like always, and she quickly turned it down as she watched the pretty girl approach Paul. He was dismissive, and Alma watched while pretending not to. They spoke for a moment, but Paul started his bike to drown out what the girl was saying. It was an annoying move of his that he had done to Alma several times in the past when he didn’t want to argue anymore. The girl scowled and swiped a cigarette out of Paul’s mouth before walking away. Alma enjoyed a petty victory and couldn’t help but smile as she backed her car out of the lot.

  Paul followed close behind as she headed home. Through the entire trip, Alma continued to look at Paul in her rearview. It seemed ridiculous that she’d driven to his apartment, only to return home with him behind her, planning to let him go back home again after. She thought about turning around, and going back to his apartment, but then she recalled the condom in the toilet. She couldn’t sleep in a bed that stank of sex, especially not after seeing the slut he’d been with.

  The entire night was dizzying. The reporter’s interest in her past dragged her back into thoughts she’d been trying to forget. The confrontation with her father played out similar to how so many of their fights had before. And now the argument with Paul was happening just as it had so many times in the past. She felt like she was caught in a spiral, swirling around again and again, revisiting the mistakes of her past over and over. It was impossible to break free.

  The last three digits of the license plate on the car ahead of her were 314.

  She stared at the number and her heart quickened. That damn number showed up everywhere. It haunted her.

  Stephen had mentioned the number before she raced away from the restaurant. He knew about Chaos Magick, and she assumed he understood the significance of the number as a symbol or else he wouldn’t have brought it up.

  Alma had been introduced to the belief system known as Chaos Magick by her mother. After Alma’s brother disappeared, her mother became obsessed with the date. She would hide the number, or the symbol for pi, around the house, claiming it was the only way they’d ever know the truth about what happened to her boy. Alma would wake up to find her mother drawing the number in permanent marker on Alma’s body. She would insist that they all focus on the symbol to help bring her son home.

  The car ahead turned down a side street, and Alma was relieved that the number was out of her sight again. It brought pain with it, every time she saw it. When she could forget the number she was at peace, but then it would return, forcing her to recall the details of the worst day of her life. Not only did the number’s relation to pi represent a circle, but her emotions revolved around it in a cyclical manner as well. No matter how far she thought she could get from that date, it always returned.

  Alma got home, with Paul behind her. It had only been a half hour since she left and she stared up at the bugs that gathered around the light outside of her apartment.

  “Back again,” she said, feeling somewhat helpless.

  The bugs swirled around the light, smacking into it and then retreating, sometimes stopping on the wall, but always returning; always smacking into the light and spinning around, like planets in orbit around the sun, over and over. The dance defined their lives. They couldn’t get away from it.

  Paul tapped on her window with his keys, frightening her. She didn’t realize she’d been staring at the door long enough for him to get off his bike and approach.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” she said as she got out.

  “You all right?” he asked. “You’ve been sitting here staring at the door for awhile.”

  She nodded and locked her car. “Yeah,
sorry, I was just thinking. You didn’t need to come, Paul, honestly. I feel bad that you had to leave your friend for this.”

  “Shush. Like I said, you’re my girl, whether you like it or not.”

  She grimaced as she headed down the concrete walkway to her apartment building. “That sounds kind of creepy.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does. Maybe you’ve been right all along, I am a creep.”

  She paused on the walkway and looked up at her apartment. “I’m too tired to fight anymore. I just want to go to bed. I just want this day to be over.”

  “Good news,” said Paul as he looked at his watch. “It’s tomorrow already. Fresh start.”

  “Is it really that late?” Alma could see between the concrete stairs into the darkness beyond. How easy would it be to hide in the shadows and wait, ready to reach through the slats and grab a victim’s ankle? She let Paul go up first.

  “I’ll help you get to sleep,” said Paul.

  “You’re not coming in.”

  He was frustrated with her insistence. “Like hell I’m not. At the very least I’m going in to make sure it’s safe before you kick me out.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come, Paul.” She walked up past him, embarrassed that a moment before she’d allowed herself to rely on him for security. “I just want to go to bed. Go home, Paul.”

  He shook his head and followed her up.

  The bugs swarmed around her face as she forced her key into the cantankerous deadbolt. It stuck frequently, leaving her stranded, trying to force the key in while the bugs swirled around her head. This time the lock opened easily, but the door was stuck in its frame. She had to slam it with her shoulder to get in.

  Paul tried to follow, but she pushed him back.

  “Seriously, Paul. I appreciate you coming here, but I don’t want you in my apartment.” It wasn’t as clean as his, and she avoided turning on the living room light to keep him from seeing the mess.

  He tried to look in over her shoulder, oblivious to the mess and hoping to make sure there wasn’t a man lurking in the dark. “Just let me have a look around.”

  She put her hand on his chest and pushed him back the one step he’d dared to take into the apartment. He looked hurt by the gesture, but relented and moved back. “Go home,” she said, and it felt like she was breaking up with him again.

  Alma closed the door on Paul.

  She couldn’t help but cry, and covered her mouth to keep him from hearing through the door. She put her back against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the tile entryway. She pulled her knees up to her chest and cried as she curled up. She started to hum to calm herself, and then looked down the hall at her bedroom.

  The bedroom light was on.

  The hallway from the apartment’s entrance led straight to the master bedroom on the other side. The living room was to the right, with a porch that looked out onto the parking lot, and the kitchen was to her left. The bathroom was down the hall to the left, with a guest room on the right filled with junk she’d never gotten around to unpacking. Straight ahead, down the carpeted hall that led away from the tiled entryway that she sat on, was the closed door of her bedroom, and light shone from beneath it.

  Her father could be in there.

  She remembered one night, before her brother disappeared, when she came home to find the light on in her bedroom. She was six, and had been playing at a friend’s house. There were several bizarre details about that night that stuck in her mind, like how the taste of chocolate raspberries that her friend’s mother had made for them was still in her mouth when she came home. She recalled an odd smell that she couldn’t identify in her house, similar to what the home smelled like when the oven was set to self clean. There was a spider in the corner, and she walked to the side of the hall away from it, beside her brother’s door, on her way to her room. She recalled the feel of the carpet between her toes, and the trail of wetness that went from the bathroom all the way to her room.

  Alma didn’t suspect anything at the time, and casually strolled to her room, more frightened of the spider than anything else. She ran the last few steps and was relieved when she opened her door and escaped into her room. That’s where her father was waiting.

  He was nude, wet from the shower, and sprawled out on her twin bed, over the Animaniacs bedspread. He sat bolt upright when she walked in and just stared at her, as if terrified. His eyes were wide, and the whites were nearly awash in red, drowning his black pupils in crimson.

  “You,” he said and then stared at her.

  “Daddy?” she was terrified of him for the first time in her life. He was supposed to be away, on a business trip in Missouri. “What’s wrong?”

  He stayed in the same position, staring at her, and didn’t bother to cover himself. His hair hung in long black, wet strands to his shoulders. He smelled strongly of soap, as if he’d lathered and never rinsed.

  “Would you miss me?” he asked finally and then, after a pause, added, “If I were in heaven?”

  “What? Of course, I would.”

  He stared at her, expressionless and silent, for a terrifying moment. Then he said, “Liar,” before falling back on the bed.

  Alma left to go sleep in her brother’s room, but she couldn’t recall anything else from that night. In fact, she didn’t remember much about her brother at all these days.

  She stared down the hallway of her apartment. The door at the end of the hall beckoned her, and she wondered if the floor would be wet between her room and the bathroom.

  Alma considered sleeping on the tile entryway. She almost laid down and curled up within the small area, as if it could somehow protect her, but recognized how ridiculous she was being. She stood up, kicked off her loafers, and walked to the kitchen to get a knife from the drawer. Then she took out her cell phone and dialed 9-1, prepared to dial the final digit.

  She walked down the hall and didn’t breathe the entire way. When she got to the door, she listened against it for any sign of life on the other side.

  Finally, she swung the door open to reveal absolutely nothing to be afraid of. She gasped and was nearly relieved, but searched the closet first. Then she walked to the spare bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen pantry to make sure she’d checked everywhere. She was safe. Her father wasn’t in the apartment.

  She tucked her phone back into her purse in an attempt to keep from losing it, which she often did. Then she closed her eyes and felt an overwhelming exhaustion.

  Alma returned to her bedroom and set the kitchen knife on her nightstand, beside the alarm clock. The red numbers displayed the time, 12:14.

  She fell back onto her pillows and set her hands over her eyes, exhausted and thankful for a new day. Perhaps this day would go better than the last.

  As she tried to relax, she couldn’t help but do the math in her head. It was 12:14. One plus two is three. 314.

  She turned the clock away from her.