Emitting a porcine grunt, he moves his right hand six inches toward Rose. Then his left. If one counts one’s life in six-inch increments, Rose has about fourteen remaining.

Craning her neck, she glances over her shoulder. The far end of the roof is shrouded in darkness, trees blocking the light from the next street. She could scoot back. To do what? Be pushed from the peak to the deck instead of from the gutter to the gravel?

Thirteen increments left. His arms are strong. He moves more quickly than she’d believed he could. Had it not been for his enormous gut, he would have gotten his feet up and straddled the ridge. Rose is grateful for beer and McDonald’s.

Once he reaches the skylight, he will do as Rose did, and use it to climb up. Monster Man must not be allowed to gain the stability of the ridge.

This, then, is where Rose will make her stand.

Whatever that entails.

For a moment she is overwhelmed with helplessness, so much so, it dizzies her. To this hulk she is as a duckling to a bobcat. Everything about her is soft and harmless: canvas shoes, flowing harem pants, thin cotton tunic, wee bony fists, blunt bovine teeth, legs the monster could probably close one fist around.

Rose orders her mind back into the moment. Be here. See here.

Piggy oink by piggy oink, he works his bulk to less than five feet from her.

“Come any closer, and I really will scream,” Rose whispers.

The brim of the ball cap lifts. Dark wet eyes glitter at her from the shadow. The lower part of his face registers as one huge knife, the hilt a black bar against his cheek.

Rose won’t scream. He must have figured that out. Had she wanted to call down the attention of the neighbors, she would have been screaming her head off for the last five minutes. She guesses that is about the amount of time that has elapsed since she heard him in the downstairs living room. The rest of her life might not last much longer than that.

Why not scream? Hadn’t she decided to go back to Longwood anyway?

She had.

The man with the slashing smile has changed her mind. Monster Man is not a burglar. Not a rapist. Monster Man is an assassin. He is here to kill Rose Dennis. Longwood no longer wants her back. Longwood knows that without the red capsules, her mind has returned. Longwood wants her dead.

Rose narrows her eyes and studies the knife wielder.

Would she rather die than face going back into the control of people who have an interest in maintaining her dementia?

Darn tootin’ she would.

Barnacle eyes fixed on her, knife cutting an obscene silver grin in his face, the intruder humps his belly sideways. Four feet from her perch. If he gets a hand on the skylight, she is toast.

Oink. Hump.

Three feet.