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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

There is a loud crash.

My father bolts after them, only to turn on his heel and race in the opposite direction.

I make for a room to the right. A large family room. One of the goats is standing on the couch, eating the only remaining cushion.

Me thinks we won’t be invited back to Ewen Manor any time soon.

I hear a loud hiss and turn just to in time to see Peaches streaking down the hall. Two feet behind her is Lassie.

“Leave her alone!” I scream.

I look down at my cell.

It is 3:50 a.m.

The next five minutes prove futile as the five — Murdock, Marshall, Latimer, Lassie, and Peaches — thrash from room to room, destroying everything in their path.

Maggie is standing on the table in the kitchen with a broom, having what I can only describe as a very intense nervous breakdown.

“Ahhhh,” she moans. “Make it stop.”

A gunshot erupts.

Standing in the hallway, a smoking double barrel shotgun pointed at the ceiling, leaning at a seventy-five-degree angle against a thick cane, is Sidney Ewen.

You could hear a pin drop.

Latimer, still standing on the couch, lets the foam he’s eating drop from his mouth and stares at the old man.

He points to the open doorway and says, “Everybody out.”

::::

“Where is Lassie?” I ask my dad, opening the passenger door and flopping into the seat.

It is 3:59 a.m.

I didn’t have a chance to thank Sidney for his time. He looked in no mood to converse, though I couldn’t blame him. Murdock and the goats destroyed well over $50,000 of his property.

At least he had his rainy day fund.

“There he is!” my father yells from just outside the driver’s side window. He opens the door and I watch as Lassie scampers across the yard and jumps into the back seat.

He has scratches all over his face and body, yet he is smiling ear to ear.

“I didn’t know you liked redheads,” I say, then melt into the seat.

::::

I wake up in the passenger seat. I push the lever on the side and bring the seat upright. My body aches from the two nights spent sleeping at such an odd angle, and I let out a groan. Something is attached to my right arm and I flip on the overhead light with my left hand. It has been awhile since I’ve woken up with an IV, and I gingerly peel off the tape and slide the needle and catheter from my forearm. The thin tubing runs to a drip bag hanging from the dry-cleaning hook in the back seat, which is two-thirds empty.

From the amount of pressure on my bladder, I can only assume there were others before this one.