Tom barely slept that night. He was in his car. Hot food wafted in the seat next to him and outside a heavy fog had descended on the streets. The radio spat and sputtered local news and the road he was on looked familiar. University flags peppered front porches every so often, and some had exquisitely trimmed hedges.

“Not here”. He knew this street. He knew whose house was at the end of it.

Tom stopped two houses away from Deborah Bollinger’s. She was standing in the darkness, watering a bed of… “Sunflowers?” Tom had expected something red. She turned and waved smiling at a man walking towards her. Tom couldn’t make out his appearance; his face was obscured by shadow.

“I was amazed…lights had never looked clearer! Now I don’t have to worry about ‘ma driving late at…” the static from the radio popped.

Deborah was almost to her front door, the dark man following behind her. Tom went to open his door, but the handle just jerked back and forth to no avail. He knew what would happened next and dreaded it. “I can stop this,” he said to no one in particular.

“Don’t go in there!” He screamed. Deborah turned in his direction, but she only looked through him and turned back towards her door. The man behind her didn’t turn, only waited until she proceeded and continued following her.

A holiday jingle crept through the crackling stereo.

They were inside when Tom saw another person heading towards her door.

“Robert Sand”. Tom banged against the window, but it made no difference. Robert Sand stumbled into Deborah Bollinger’s house behind that man and others followed. Tom watched in horror as Melanie walked across the lawn and up to the door.

“Turn around!” He scratched at the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. His boss Nick was behind Melanie. “Well, it could be worse…” Tom watched Brian go in, followed by even more. There were his parents. There were his childhood friends. There was everyone he had ever known, walking through that door. He was reeling back and forth in his seat when a match struck next to him.

Tom turned to see Detective Daniels in his passenger seat, lighting a cigar. “Good song, huh Tom.” He nodded at the radio, playing music now.

“Fan of the Wailers, detective?”

Daniels frowned at that. “This is Clapton’s jam, you little punk.”

“And I shot the sheriff!” Tom said.

Tom looked back at the house and saw light flashing behind the curtains. “I told you I didn’t do this, detective. He’s in there right now. Do something!” He yelled, incredulous of Daniel’s complacency.

“You know we’re not interested in doing that, Tommy Boy.” Daniels removed his gun from its holster. “Now, just relax.” He pointed it straight up and started blowing holes in the roof of Tom’s car. “For the smoke,” he said.

Tom woke in his bed, blinking into bright light penetrating the shades in dusty beams. The TV was still on from the night before, and he could hear the local broadcast gearing up.