Beer’s almost gone, fire’s almost out, wife’s probably asleep by now, thank god, I can go inside and see how bad I did with the fantasy football this week. Life’s a gift, ain’t it?

Two eyes appear on the other side of the fire, glowing and red. I thought I only had the three cans of beer. Did I have six? Sometimes it’s hard to keep count when you don’t give a shit.

“Greetings,” a voice rasps. You know, like the sound a rasp makes as it scrapes away at the bars of the cage holding back insanity. “May I share your fire tonight?”

I should be terrified, right? But I’m annoyed. Do you know how long it took me to build this fire? And did anyone help me? And then, what, the spawn of Satan shows up and wants to share?

Then again, if this is the spawn of Satan, or whatever, maybe I should play nice. Afterall, that’s what I did with the last spawn of Satan I met, and look how that turned out. Six years of blissful marriage. “Be my guest,” I say.

“Obliged,” the voice says, and then the eyes close, and then, well, to the sound of chewing, the fire is gone. And all that beer does nothing to hold back the cold.

“Okay,” I say. Now what. Does it eat beer cans too, maybe? Or running backs that go in the first round and then can’t get more than 20 yards in a single game?

Or wives?

“Uh, you still there?” I say, feeling foolish as soon as the words come out of my mouth.

“For your kindness,” the voice says. And then there’s a scream from inside the house.

I’m in motion and running up the back steps before my feet realize we’re way to inebriated to negotiate stairs at this speed. I trip on the top riser and fall on my face. Someone’s giggling. Oh wait that’s me. I find my knees and do enough complicated geometry to stand up again. I go through the kitchen, the living room, the hallway. Our bedroom door is closed. My hand is on the door knob.

I can’t bring myself to open the door. Is she dead? Is this my fault? Did I do this? I never asked for it, not out loud. Not when anyone was close enough to hear. Should I feel guilty? Ashamed? Should I feel ashamed that I don’t feel ashamed? I’m sweating, I can’t catch my breath, my hand is shaking on the doorknob. Should I feel terrible about the tiny, ridiculous spark of hope buried deep in my chest?

Okay. Okay okay okay. I can do this. I count’ down from three. Three, I’m just drunk, there was no body outside with me just now. Two, nothing asked to share my fire, and then ate it. One, my wife is not dead, not at all, not even a little bit. Zero. Open the damn door.

I open the damn door. I hear another scream and a boom and there’s a flash and something hits me in the chest and I’m stumbling backwards and hitting the wall in the hall and I fall and I loll. I’ve never lolled before. Why am I lolling. Who lolls. I weigh about a thousand pounds now and I’m frickin freezing. Who’s says frickin. What’s the word I want. Fuckin.

And now here’s my wife. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod she’s saying, shouting, screaming. A dream a dream I had a bad dream I woke up I thought it was real I woke up I thought someone was in the house I didn’t know ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.

She’s about a hundred miles away now. Think I might take a little nap, maybe. She’s so beautiful. Look at here, crying there. So beautiful. Glad she’s not dead. That woulda been a shame. Yep, a nap sounds like a good idea. I should ask for a blanket first. Nah.

Baby baby baby she’s shouting. Why was there a gun in our bed, when did you buy a gun, I just grabbed it, it was a dream, I thought you were an intruder baby when did you buy a gun.

I never bought a gun. Hate the damn things. They kill people. Flip it. No, I mean frick it. No, the other one. We’ll talk about it after my nap. Get me a blanket. Fuck it.