I woke at midnight on the day of my one hundredth birthday.

Some sound, perhaps some presence, had stirred my mind. I could see no one in the shadows of my bedroom, but that meant little. Perhaps it had been a dream. But no—I could feel into the corners of the room, into the closet, the hall, the space above the ceiling, and knew someone was near. Moreover, I knew it was someone familiar to me.

One hundred years of relative peace and quiet; now this. I couldn’t tell if the mystery visitor had eyes on me, just that someone was paying attention, the way you might apprehend someone reading over your shoulder.

I had a gun in my nightstand, a knife wedged under my mattress: I’ve had an interesting life filled mostly with whatever interests and challenges I chose to pursue, but every now and then, like the evolutionary theory of punctuated equilibrium, I met someone or something that hungered for that life.

This is not one of those times, Skyler, said a voice in my mind, familiar indeed.

“Hello, Mother.”