I swing my right leg against his left and knock him over. He falls to the floor, the baton still in his hand.

I push myself to my feet with my good arm. Grendel yelps and barks.

I back away toward the door as Preston rights himself. He stands and comes toward me, while I continue to back up. My arm hangs limply at my side.

“It’s over, Preston,” I say again.

“Not for me,” he says.

He charges, baton raised.

I reach the door, try to pull it open.

But the door swings inward before I can.

Someone is here, coming into the house. Several people.

When Preston sees them, he stops his charge. His blazing eyes focus, and he stands in the center of the room, his cheeks red, the baton raised over his head like a torch.

It’s Kelly returning with their daughters. They all look at him with horror, coming face-to-face with a part of him they’ve never seen.

I look past them to the yard. I see flashing lights strobing in the dark.

The police are here. They’re coming through the door.

“Daddy . . . ?”

Then the police are inside, and they wrestle Preston to the ground. Face-first. It takes four of them to get the cuffs on him while his wife and children watch.

I collapse to the floor, my crushed arm cradled against my chest.

Grendel comes to my side and licks my face.

It is well and truly over.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

I wake up early in the morning. Like I always do.

To be honest, my life now isn’t much different from what it was in Gatewood. Before I admitted the book wasn’t mine. Before I lost my job and tenure and everything.

Now I wake up early in a different state where I teach part-time at a different university. It’s colder here. And farther north, closer to where my sister lives. My arm is completely healed. And I don’t have tenure or any real job security. But who does, right?

I take Grendel for a walk around the neighborhood. He moves slower than ever now. Maybe because it’s cold. Maybe because he’s slowing down, as we all are. I tell myself he might have a few good years left. I hope so.

When I return to my small apartment, I brew coffee and feed the dog. And when the coffee’s ready, I sit down to write. I try to write a few hundred words before I have to go to campus to teach that day’s classes. Some days I don’t make it. But most I do.

I’m keeping my expectations low and reasonable.

For someone who hasn’t finished anything in a long time, that seems like a good choice.

I open the file I’ve been working on and start to go.

And what kind of story am I writing now?