For that man’s face was blurring now, and another was taking its place. This one was a parody of the former, an identical twin whose features shifted schizophrenically with wide eyes that saw, what, jungle enemies from a war long over? Or something more seriously unbalanced, like demons or ghosts, or vampires?

Maybe a cup of hot chocolate would help her sleep. She slipped into her housecoat and scuffs and shuffled down the chilled hallway, careful to avoid those worn spots in the floor lest she wake the boys.

She was two steps down the staircase before she heard sounds from the darkness below.

It was soft and continuous, like the low drone of an insect. Her throat constricted. Voices. Muttering just softly enough for her not to identify them or make out what they were saying. She backed up a step, hoping she could make it to her room and the telephone without setting off one of those land-mine floorboards and giving herself away. But then the voices downstairs turned to clapping and her alarms deactivated with a sigh. Unless the intruders had brought a studio audience, she realized, it must be the television set. And where there was a TV on . . .

She crept the rest of the way down and peeked past the wall into the living room.

A late night episode of Happy Days was about midway through, and the studio was still alive with whistles and applause at Fonzie’s entrance. The home audience, however, was not so enthused. Del was sprawled on the couch in his pajamas, cradling something (probably He-Man or Skeletor) in his arms like a football player protecting the ball. Bart sat in the recliner before the television and nodded his head erratically, swaying and dipping, the same way his dad used to do when he just couldn’t stay up for those late-night westerns.

Billie felt a flash of motherly anger at being disobeyed—they were sent to bed hours ago—but her temper was quickly squelched by even stronger maternal concern. What’s wrong with you, she snapped at herself. Have you been that wrapped up in your own worries and disappointments? What did you expect, two scared boys to sleep in their own rooms, alone, in the dark? They’re your children, dammit. Act like it.