“There’s not much more to it. I picked up a rock and threw it, and whatever it is stopped following me. The boys must have forgotten to turn on the outside lights, which would have been a beacon, so I stumbled around in the dark, looking for the house, till I spotted Jip’s bedroom window. Go to the light at the end of the tunnel. Isn’t that what they say you do when you die. Look, I’m all right. A bit frosty around the edges, and the blood—”
“I think you should see a doctor,” Holly said. “If not tonight, at least in the morning.”
“But you must have been out cold for hours,” Mrs. Weller said. “You could have a concussion.”
“Did you hit your head?” Jack Peter asked.
From the corner of the room, Nick coughed, reminding them of his presence.
“I don’t remember.” He touched his forehead. “Maybe that’s one symptom of amnesia. You can’t remember if you have it.”
Mr. Weller fetched their coats and hats. “No more monsters for tonight.”
“No more monsters,” his father said.
“Peckerless or otherwise, no more monsters. Doctor’s orders.” Mrs. Weller stood to join her husband. “You get him to bed, Holly, and we’ll give you a call in the morning, eh?”
“You’ve been too kind,” his mother said. “I’ll take care of Tim, now.”
Jack Peter studied the Wellers as they readied themselves to go, wrapping themselves until they nearly lost all shape. At the door, Mrs. Weller leaned over and kissed his father on the cheek. Mr. Weller grabbed him in a bear hug and squeezed so hard it made his father gasp, and then they stepped into the night. Through the window Jack Peter watched them pass through the beam from the porch light. Nick looked left and right and all around as if worried about what lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce. They made it safely to the car, which trailed away, two red taillights that narrowed to pinpoints and vanished.
Beside the easy chair, his mother crouched next to his father so that their faces were on the same plane. She had led him back to comfort and warmth, wrapped a blanket around his legs, and now they conspired in secret looks and low voices. They often spoke this way, in a language of gestures foreign and inscrutable. She laid her hand upon his forearm. He bowed his head toward hers.
“How about I run you a nice hot bath? And while you’re soaking, I’ll make us something to eat—you must be starving.”
Careworn, she slowly stood and made her way upstairs. Rushing water overhead broke the silence. His father reclined in the easy chair, head back, resting his eyes. Jack Peter read the angles of his face, normal color returning to his skin, and listened to the soft purring of his steady breathing. From afar, he traced the three long lines swiped across his throat and a nick beneath his left ear. Just when he seemed to have fallen fully asleep, his father arched an eyebrow and popped open one eye. They considered each other from a short distance before Jack Peter had to turn away.
His father closed his eyes again and spoke in a calm and measured tone. “Who do you think was out there, Jip?”
He cleared his throat and whispered. “A monster.”
“But there are no such things as monsters, son.”
“Then I don’t know.”
The roar of water upstairs ended abruptly, and he knew his mother was now testing the temperature with her elbow. He had seen her do so a hundred times before, rolling back her sleeve and hunching over the tub to make sure the bath was not too hot or too cold. She specialized in making things just right. In a moment, she would call his father when it was all set, but Daddy was already moving, untangling the blanket from his legs and lifting his sore and tired body from the chair.