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complain each night when they were growing up. Sister always needed a light on

to sleep. A lamp, or just the wedge of light coming into the room from a hallway.

She loved the dark. It was like putting on a cool, comforting cloak. She knew there was nothing in the dark that could harm her, even from a young age. She

had never been a good sleeper. While her family slumbered, she would roam the silent house. Taking in the shapes made in the shadows – enjoying the familiar and yet strange angles of the rooms and furniture as they were transformed by the darkness and made anew. Moonlight seemed beautiful to her. It was the devil’s neon.

Thunder cracked.

The rain came like someone turning on a shower. A heavy, thick downpour.

Momentarily, she raised her face to the heavens, letting the rain fall on her cheeks – reinvigorating her with its cold caress.

She removed the backpack, held it in front of her as she opened the zip and drew out the knife. Flicking open the blade, she locked it in place and carefully put it in her jacket pocket.

It was time.

The dog barked again as she put her foot on the first step at the front entrance.

Then another step, applauded by a volley of barks. She counted five stone steps to the front door. A porch light activated, illuminating her. She glanced around.

No one on the street.

The dog’s barking abated, leaving only calm and the whisper of the wind in the branches of the trees that lined the other side of the street.

She checked the street again. It was empty. She knocked on the door, put down her bag. The bag was half open. Ready if she needed to dive in for the Taser.

She heard nothing more, didn’t notice any lights coming on in the hallway.

She would have seen them in the narrow window above the door.

She knocked again. Waited.

Stepping closer, she turned her head. Rested it against the door. She could hear the faint, rhythmic creak of feet on the stairs. Not a quick descent. Steady.

Cautious because of the time of night.

Her heart began beating faster as she sensed a presence moving toward her, now only a few feet away, on the other side of the door. She stood straight.

Forced down the excitement. She knew, in a matter of seconds, she would be inside, and hot blood would roll over her wrist as she turned the blade in soft flesh.

HARRY

He knew he was in the same damn dream, again.

In that strange, twilight state between dreaming and waking he told himself he was safe. It was just a dream. He wasn’t really kneeling in that foxhole in a jungle twenty miles from Hanoi. The sweat that glued his combat fatigues to his skin wasn’t real. His M-16 wasn’t really sliding from his dripping wet hands.

Hands bathed in the blood of his lieutenant, who’d stepped on a mine and lost both legs in a deafening, visceral flash.

He was dreaming.

He woke, like he did most nights, puffing and panting. Sitting straight up in bed and heaving great gulps of air into his lungs. Tonight he resisted the urge to check his hands, to make sure it wasn’t real. Harry heard a whimper from Clarence, and the dog unfolded itself from the bottom of the bed and gently came toward him. Clarence’s wet nose brushed Harry’s cheek, and then he felt

that rough, cold tongue on his own nose.

‘It’s okay, there’s a good boy,’ said Harry, patting the dog.

After a few minutes, Harry’s breathing had returned to normal. It was then he noticed he really was soaking in sweat. His white vest was awash. He took it off, threw it in the corner. He would pick it up in the morning and add it to the laundry. The most recent, former Mrs. Ford would have yelled at him for such a