Drool spattered down the intersecting blues and greens of Michael’s flannel shirt. He raised his arm, awkwardly wiping his mouth. The clock on the wall looked like it was underwater. Shaking so bad Michael couldn’t even read it.

It had to be around noon. He rolled his chair over to the venetian blinds and jabbed a fat finger into the slats. The sun was a white-hot terror. The street was so empty and bright. Charming.

160 hours, approximately? His eyes wandered over to Sarah’s body. So relaxed. She had made it…. five days? She could sleep now. What was left?

He stared at the mug of lukewarm coffee in his left hand. World’s Greatest Dad. With a jerk of the arm, he threw the liquid into his face. Better. Caffeine dripping from his eyebrows, Michael ratcheted himself onto his legs and crossed the room to the clock. That stupid clock with its insipid ticking. Jittering with desperate rage, Michael tore it off the wall and held it. Face to face.