She'd probably find a reason to complain about that, too. They'd look destitute in the eyes of the neighbors if he did the work himself. They weren't paupers, after all.

He didn't care. His next weekend's plans already set at nine o'clock Monday night, Walter happily slipped his house key from the others on the ring in his hand and brought it up to the lock on his front door.

At just the slightest pressure, the door popped open.

"Damn kids," Walter muttered as he pushed the door open all the way. "Least it's not January." He took one step across the threshold-his hand still on the brass knob-when he felt a sudden blinding pain shoot through the side of his head. He reeled in place.

The living room was swept in dark maroon shadows. Penny was there. So were the kids, Alice and Mike. On the couch. Gray electrical tape across their mouths. Eyes pleading. Hands and feet bound tightly together.

The pain again. Powerful. Overwhelming. A second to realize he'd been attacked.

He lunged at his assailant. Or wanted to. But something had changed. Penny and the two kids were lower now. On his level. Terrified.

No. He was on their level.

He had fallen. Hands reached up to ward off the next blow. Something struck his fingers, slamming them against his own skull. A shotgun butt.

Fresh pain. Fingers, broken.

Blood on his fingers. His own blood from the gaping wound in the side of his head.

The room was spinning. Ceiling whirling high above him. Cracked plaster. He'd promised to fix that, too.

This weekend. Along with the walk. Hell, he'd even clean the garage. Everything this weekend. If only he could live. If only God would spare his beautiful wife and precious, precious children.

The room, and the world around it, was collapsing into a brilliant hot flash of light. Coalescing into a pinprick explosion. Flickering once, then vanishing forever.