3
BOBBY ROLAND hurtled down a corridor as the corpse of a man named Farley shuffled after him like a zombie in some stupid horror flick. His heart pounded, and sweat dripped from every pore as Farley got closer and closer, and then cold hands latched around Bobby’s neck, and then Bobby was sitting upright on the couch in his tiny living room, no Farley in sight. He rubbed his neck where the dream specter had touched it. Farley had been a real person once. Bobby had killed him to save himself and his mother. Bobby survived, of course. His mother had died anyway, at the hand of another man on a different day. Not wanting to think about those terrible days he’d endured the past summer, Bobby’s eyes went to the clock on the wall: 6:00 pm. “Crap.” He lurched to his feet in an instant, jamming them into a pair of gym shoes. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long after his weightlifting session earlier that afternoon, and now he was running late for an errand he’d promised to complete by the end of the day.