Jack banged through the unlocked front door, took one whiff of acrid air, and ran to my room, where he pushed the remains of my bed to the perimeter. Blinky then spread his tentacles so that the entire floor was carpeted with his mucoid flesh. I climbed on top of my dresser to get out of the way. The tip of each tentacle crinkled as if sniffing out a varmint.

“ARRRGH!!!’s nose is better suited for this task,” Blinky apologized. “On the upside, though, I do have seventy-four of them.”

This gave me hope until the tentacles ripped away like tape. Blinky backpedaled to the safety of the closet, hacking up fizzing troll phlegm that began to eat away at several items of my discarded clothing.

“The scoundrels are piping up the vilest of odors to throw us off the scent! Strawberries! Vanilla! Azaleas! Coffee! I fear I shall faint like a corseted maiden! Or vomit most forcefully! Or both in impressive concurrence!”

“We attack,” Jack said. “Right now. But we need a different door.”

“Anywhere but here!” Blinky moaned. “Or regurgitation will be the evening’s sport!”

“I know the place,” Jack said. “But we need to move.”

There was no argument. Jack strapped on his armor, the metal parts snapping and ringing, harbingers of combat. I kicked aside the clothes sodden with troll puke and chose a shirt and pants that I wouldn’t mind dying in. Blinky handed me Cat #6 and Claireblade, and they felt heavier than ever before.

We swept through the living room, and I grabbed the doorknob. It turned but the door didn’t open. All ten locks had been thrown. I began the unlocking regimen before realizing what this meant. I turned around and there was Dad, clutching his battered briefcase, his face patched with stubble, his clothes matted, his unbuttoned left cuff link stained from whatever fast food he’d been living off for the past day.

Dad’s reaction to seeing an actual troll was so subdued that I worried his brain might politely explode inside his skull. To minimize his size, Blinky folded as many of his appendages behind him as he could. Jack, meanwhile, kneaded the mask in his hand, clearly wishing he could put it on to avoid this encounter. Dad exhaled and inhaled as if both were being done at gunpoint, and reached out to the shelf above the electric fireplace for stability. Various pieces of the Jack Sturges Collection were toppled.

Dad gazed at his brother’s school photos while he spoke.

“Jack,” he said. “Why did you come back?”

“I had to,” Jack whispered.