It was 2:17 a.m.
The kind of hour that doesn’t belong to anyone decent.
Jenny was in Colorado, visiting our daughter. Which meant—for one night only, I had the house to myself.
I had plans.
Serious ones.
A drink. A notebook. The possibility of writing something that would finally justify the years I’d been avoiding useful employment.
I had written three words.
Then the dog started barking.
Not the usual nonsense. Not the hopeful, optimistic barking reserved for squirrels and moral victories.
This was tighter. Short. Urgent.
Personal.
I stepped outside.
The grass was cold and wet, climbing immediately up my ankles like it had been waiting for me. The yard lay open and still, and the barn sat exactly where it always sat, solid, patient, uninterested.
That was the thing about the barn.
It never moved.
Which meant if something strange was happening, it wasn’t the barn.
It was me.
The dog was at the door, nose pressed hard against the gap beneath it, barking into the dark like it had found something it didn’t understand.
As I came closer, the barn door opened.
Just enough.
The dog slipped inside.
The door closed again.
I stood there.
Letting that settle into whatever part of a man is responsible for decision-making.
Good sense suggested I go back inside.
Call someone.
Preferably someone younger, faster, and less prone to digestive complications.
But good sense has a limited range out here. It weakens with distance. Like phone signal. Like reason.
So I turned off the light.
