Though he would never tell her out loud, he was certain that his wife’s book needed some drama to spice it up. As he scrolled through her phone’s contacts, he thought carefully about which character’s death would make her autobiography more interesting.
It was a terrible accident, everyone commiserated, but at least some good had come of it. After months of encouraging her son not to wear his helmet, he had finally been injured badly enough that she could tell the doctors to transplant what was needed for her favourite child to live.
There was someone breathing quietly under the bed, he realised as he shakily pulled out a pocketknife. He had thought this house was empty when he broke in, but was willing to put in the work to get a quiet night’s sleep.