Two little boys, venturing where they were not supposed to go.

“We’re not allowed to go in there,” Eli said, but the door was open, and Billy pushed it even wider so they could both peek inside.

Toys, all the coolest ones, lined the shelves inside. The action figures Eli had requested for Hanukkah and his birthday but hadn’t received. Games. Train sets, packs of crayons.

Candy.

Boxes of it, full-sized bars and bags of treats Eli was rarely allowed to have. His mouth watered. Billy looked at him, eyes wide.

“Is this Santa’s workshop?” Billy asked.

Eli shook his head, remembering at the last moment that Mom had told him never to tell Billy the truth about Santa Claus, because that would be really, really mean. “No, it’s my Dad’s. He sure isn’t Santa.”

Before Eli could stop him, Billy had gone through the door. He was reaching for the nearest box of chocolate bars when Eli’s dad came out of the back part of the workshop. He was rubbing his hands with a cloth that he tucked into his back pocket when he saw the boys.

“Sorry, Dad! Sorry!” Eli cried out hastily.

Dad frowned. He looked mad. Eli was afraid of Dad when his face did that crunching up thing. “You boys know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

A bad taste in Eli’s mouth. He blinked. Billy was taking something from Dad’s hand.

“Candy,” Dad said. “You like candy, don’t you, Billy?”

A blink.

Billy was crying.

A blink.

“Stop it, you little fucker!” Dad’s whisper was worse than a scream. He waved a hand bright with blood from where Billy bit him.

Dad hit Billy. Billy hit the floor. A blink. Dad’s hands were around Billy’s throat. Billy kicked. Billy tried to scream.

A blink.

Dad had the nail gun in one hand. He looked at Eli. He still looked scary. Mad. Like a monster.

“Hold this. In your hands. Hold it, you little shit!”

A click. A thunk. A blink.

Eli stood over Billy with the nail gun in his hands. It was too heavy. He tried to drop it but was afraid it would hit Billy. Billy’s eyes were open. His mouth was open. A red spot of blood was in the middle of his forehead. Dad was gone.

“Eli?” Mom’s voice came around the corner of the basement. Footsteps came closer, toward the workshop.

“What did you do?” Mom asked. “Oh, baby boy, what did you do?”

Blink.

Blink.

Dark.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

We hold each other for a few moments more before we each step back.

“You do not have to be sorry. Do you hear me? What your father did was horrible. It was wrong. He’s a sick man. He deserves to be locked up. He deserves worse than that.”

“If I’d told you back then, he would never have been able to hurt anyone else!”

“Shh. None of that is your fault. He did it. Only him.”