Free Alone by Brian Keene Page A

was unmade, and the sheets still showed the impression from where she’d slept. His daughter’s stuffed animals were silent and dour. Two-dozen glass button eyes stared back at him.
    “Danielle? Punkin’?”  
    No answer.
    Dan frowned, thinking. Apparently, Jerry had taken Danielle somewhere this morning. Probably to daycare. He must have known that the power was out. Why hadn’t he woken him up before they left? Now he’d be late for work. It was uncharacteristic of Jerry to be so inconsiderate, and it pissed him off the more he thought about it. Sure, Dan was the owner of his own company. But that didn’t mean he could just stroll in whenever he felt like it—especially when he only had five other employees, all of whom would be there waiting for him to open.  
    He thought about the possibilities. Danielle was late for daycare and Jerry had forgotten about waking him. Or perhaps the power had gone off after Jerry and Danielle had left the house. Or maybe something terrible had happened, and Jerry had to rush her to the doctor. Or maybe Jerry had left him—moved out while he was still asleep. Maybe he’d been having an affair with another guy ...
    Quit being paranoid. Jerry probably just went out for something—maybe we need coffee—and he left a note downstairs.
    Dan stomped down the hallway and into the bathroom. He assured himself that he was just being silly and paranoid. He needed to wake up. Then everything would become clear.  
    He wished, not for the first time, that they’d bought a newer house with room for a second bathroom. Instead, they’d bought this Civil War-era home with limited space. Still, it was a home filled with love and laughter—except for this morning.
    Fumbling for his limp penis through the fly of his boxers, he thought about this new sign of approaching middle age. Gone was the raging morning wood of his twenties and early thirties. He stared down at his potbelly, another sign, one that had come to visit him around his thirty-second birthday, and refused to leave no matter how much time he spent at the gym or how much healthy food Jerry forced him to eat.
    He stood there, willing himself to piss, but nothing happened. He concentrated, focusing on the act at hand—or in hand. Still nothing. His penis had stage fright. The first few gray pubic hairs (another unwelcome and disturbing sign of impending middle-age, one that had shown up only a few months ago) poked out from his boxers. More gray peppered his temples and beard. Dan hated the gray hairs. Jerry often told him they were sexy, and that they made him look distinguished, but Dan knew he was lying. It was one of those things you said out of love, rather than sincerity—like telling someone a particular pair of jeans didn’t make them look fat when in fact, they did.
    Muttering, Dan released his flaccid, uncooperative member and shuffled back to the bedroom. He shrugged into his blue bathrobe, mildly surprised that his joints didn’t pop and his muscles didn’t ache this morning like they usually did. That was a good sign.  
    The silence began to annoy him. It felt uncomfortable. Yawning once again, he grabbed the stereo remote control and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Then Dan remembered that there was no electricity.
    “Must ... have ... coffee ... Can’t think straight.”
    He fastened the bathrobe shut, and started down the stairs, mentally taking stock as he went.
    My name is Daniel Miller. I own a web design and hosting company that helped pay for this house. I have a wonderful partner, Jerry, who works as a mortgage research analyst, and a beautiful daughter, Danielle, and I love them both very much, even if they did forget to wake me up for work this morning. I am officially middle aged now, and somebody must have made a mistake somewhere, because I graduated in 1990, which wasn’t really that long ago, and I’ve already got a pot belly and gray fucking pubic hair and no morning hard on. This makes me