Diabolical indeed.

It was almost one A.M. when Myron spotted Mickey’s car. He wondered whether he too should feign being asleep, but Mickey wouldn’t buy it. Myron had waited up for three reasons. One: General concern. Two: So his father wouldn’t have to. And three—most obvious: To find out what had happened after Myron left Mickey and Ema at the Moore house.

Myron sat in the dark and waited. Five minutes passed. Myron looked out. The car was still there. No lights. No movement. Myron frowned. He picked up his mobile and sent Mickey a text: All ok?

No reply. Another minute went by. Nothing. Myron checked his phone for a reply. Nada. A feeling of unease began to descend upon him. He called Mickey’s phone. It went straight to voicemail.

What the hell?

He got out of Dad’s chair and started for the front door. No, that would be too direct. He headed into the kitchen and out the back. The yard was pitch dark, so Myron used the flashlight on his mobile phone. He circled toward the driveway where the streetlights provided enough illumination.

Still nothing.

Myron ducked low and crept toward the back of the car. Dad had watered the lawn recently. Myron’s slippers were quickly waterlogged. Terrific. He was twenty yards from the trunk of the vehicle. Then ten. Then he was ducking behind the back bumper.

He did a mental check, sifting through his brain in search of probable explanations for why no one would have come out of the car yet. Then just as Myron made the leap and grabbed the door handle and pulled open the driver’s door, the answer came to him . . .

. . . a second too late.

Ema screamed.

Mickey shouted, “What the hell, Myron?”

Two teenagers. In a car. Late at night.

Myron flashed back to a time when his own father had walked in on him and Jessica, his old love, during a most indelicate moment. His father had just stood there, unmoving, frozen, and at the time, Myron didn’t get it, why his father didn’t quickly apologize and close the door.

He got it now.

“Oh,” Myron said. Then: “Oh.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mickey snapped.

“Oh,” Myron said again.

They were both, Myron was glad to see, dressed. Clothes, hair, makeup, showed some degree of distress. But they were dressed.

Myron pointed with his thumb behind him. “Maybe I should wait in the house.”

“Ya think?”

“Right. Okay, then.”

“Go!” Mickey shouted.

Myron turned and slouched his way back toward the house. Before he got to the door, Mickey and Ema were out of the car, doing slight wardrobe adjustments and following him. When Myron opened the door and they all stepped inside, Dad was standing there in the Homer Simpson pajamas Myron had bought him last Father’s Day.

Dad looked at Myron. Then he looked at Mickey and Ema.

“You went outside?” he asked Myron.

“Yes.”

“Weren’t you a teenager once?” Dad shook his head, trying to hold in the smile. “I knew I shouldn’t have left the night watch to you. Good night, all.”