Sterling Wilson grunted miserably. It had been here this morning. Right here, on the low table next to the heavy lead box.

He’d always been a reader, and didn’t see why that had to change now. His habit was to take a book to bed, reading ‘til his lids drooped. The only difference now was that his eyes started drooping around six a.m. and his “bed” had sides.

Having been a practical man when he lived, He’d started by hiring two men to drag his coffin to his grandparents’ house, then eating them. Well, it was his house now: his grandparents had been dead (dead dead) for thirty years. The house had been shut for ages.

Being practical, the first book he’d bought once he’d set up his “bed” was a self-help book, to help him adjust to his new lifestyle (there had to be a better word). Now his book was missing from where he’d left it before shutting the lid and drifting off…

He snarled and bent low: on the carpet, a print in the dust that wasn’t his or a late workman’s: a tiny sneaker.

Meddling kids!