“Hey, Monopoly. I haven’t played that in a coon’s age.” He yelled, still without moving the comic book, “Hey, Mom. You want in on some Monopoly?”

Billie’s voice called back, “No thanks. Somebody’s gotta do dishes around here. Besides, you can only play a short game. Tomorrow’s school, remember?”

“Aw, Mom,” they groaned in unison. As children, they were obligated to do so.

“You heard me.” Her tone was no-nonsense.

“I think it’s in my closet.” Del said as he went out of the living room and down the hall, almost to the back door before turning into the last bedroom.

The boy’s room was just that; a boy’s room. The mere identification encompassed not only its condition but its contents. Dirty clothes were puddled everywhere except in the hamper they’d been thrown at. Magazines and comic books were spread liberally about—Popular Science and National Geographic (gift subscriptions from Grandma and Grandpa), National Lampoon, a Mad magazine or two, an amalgam of superheroes, from the Teen Titans to the Thundercats to The Savage Sword of Conan. Absent were Fangoria and Famous Monsters and his other horror books. Those were stashed by the closet door with a blanket thrown over them.

He crossed the mine field he called a floor and dug into the closet, stepping around the covered stack as if it were a basket of snakes. The Monopoly game was buried at the very bottom of his game stack. With patient prying he got it loose without tipping the rest of them, then went back into the hall.

What was that? He heard something and turned automatically toward the back door. It was coming from the backyard. He listened for a second . . . A dog barking. Bruiser, the pit bull next door. But what’s he carrying on about? Then a knock came to the back door, not six feet away. Delbert jumped, and the scarred old game box came open and sent deeds and tokens and a rainbow of money scattering across the rug. He ignored it all and took a step toward the door. Through the small porthole window he could see that the screen door was open and someone was standing out there, just out of view.

The knock came again, insistently.

“Wh . . .” He swallowed. “Who is it?”

“C’mon, honey,” Billie’s voice called. “Open the door, will ya?”

The boy’s sigh of relief was so pronounced he almost wet his pants. “Jeez-o’-Pete,” he laughed, “you scared me half to death. I didn’t know who it might be.” He went over to the door and reached for the knob but realized at a glance that the button on the handle was not depressed. “Hey, it’s not locked, lazy. Open it yourself. I gotta pick up this game you made me drop.” He went, to his hands and knees and scooped money into a pile.