Free Twisted by Andrew E. Kaufman

says he’s going to kill us all.”
    It was as if every bulb in the room had blown because all I saw was utter darkness. My father’s mind had turned inside out and landed smack dab on the dining room table. Even Mom couldn’t ignore that one, and her face—blank and nearly bloodless—showed it.
    But the dinner horror show paled in comparison to what I saw a few hours later.
    I walked into the bathroom, and my legs went flimsy.
    There was my father, inside the tub and hunched over the drain.
    Talking to it.
    Pleading.

16
    My headache refuses to let up.
    The ribs aren’t cooperating much either, shifting from sore and tender to stabbing and stinging. Despite how lousy I feel, I stop by Devon’s room to tuck him in.
    Entering through the doorway, I find him belly to floor and searching beneath his bed.
    “What are you looking for there, kiddo?”
    He draws his head up to look at me. “My pajamas.”
    “Unless I’ve missed something, Mom doesn’t keep them there.”
    “But they were just on the bed a little bit ago.”
    “Then they have to be somewhere.” I give the room a cursory inspection.
    Devon stands up and frowns.
    “No worries, buddy.” I pull open his dresser drawer, grab another set of pajamas, and hand it to him. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
    As he begins changing into his PJs, I take a seat on the bed and notice Jake several feet away, chin resting on paws, foreboding eyes aimed at me. Again, I’m baffled. Long before my son’s body can hit the sheets, without fail, Jake is already there and waiting. This is a constant, one I’ve been witness to for years. It’s their pattern.
    But not tonight.
    Devon crawls into bed, and I nod toward the dog. “Is he doing okay?”
    Without so much as sparing Jake a glance, he says, “Uh-huh.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Uh-huh,” he says again.
    “Because he seems a little down.”
    “He’s okay.” Devon pulls the blanket up and over his chest.
    “And he’s usually in bed with you by now.”
    My son shrugs and reaches across the bed for Jake’s favorite toy, the rubber bone, then tosses it onto the floor. The bone drops beside Jake’s head. Jake doesn’t seem remotely interested. I puzzle over the strange dynamic playing out between boy and dog, wondering if there’s more to this than Devon is telling me.
    “Daddy?”
    I look quickly back at my son.
    “The accident hurt you bad.”
    “Not so bad,” I say and notice that Jake is now sitting across from Devon’s door and gaping at it. Just like earlier. As if he’s waiting for something.
    “Daddy?” Devon says again, and I look back at him.
    “We forgot liftoff last night,” he informs me.
    “You’re right.” I consider Jake again, still troubled by his behavior.
    Liftoff is our secret evening ritual. Actually, it was how I used to get Devon into bed when he was younger. We never said bedtime or sleep, because for most kids, those are dirty words. Instead it was a time travel mission , and he wasn’t sleeping, he was transforming into a special crime fighter to rid the world of evil. It worked like a charm, and even though he eventually wised up to my game, our little routine has endured. I’m not really up for this, considering how I feel, but his eager expression makes it hard to say no.
    “Ready?” I say.
    “Ready,” he replies through a big, gap-toothed smile.
    I pull the covers up snugly around him, then intone, “This is Ground Control to Spartan Newberg.” He still loves when I use his covert crime fighter code name. “Do you copy?”
    “Copy!” He squirms, then settles.
    “You are clear for liftoff.”
    Devon makes rumbling rocket sounds with his mouth.
    And I begin the countdown. “Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .”
    “One!” he shouts with glee, then does the liftoff noise.
    “Go get those bad guys, kiddo. The clock is ticking, Spartan, and only you can restore order to the world.”
    I straighten the covers, kiss his