He shakes his head. “I didn’t hear anything,” he says. “But if there was an intruder or something besides us in the house, let me take care of it, okay? I’d hate for any of my friends at work to hear that you beat up a burglar while I was passed out in bed. They’d never let me live it down.” “My husband, the caveman,” I joke feebly, and let him pull me back to bed. He does what he does and part of me enjoys it even as my ears strain to pick up noises other than the two of us in the dark, my eyes strain to pick out the shapes in the room. Something by the open doorway trying is trying to see me well. Then morning comes and I’m up before him, baby in arms, coffee warming downstairs. “Did you get some sleep last night?” he asks in passage. I ease the worry lines with the lie, “yes.” I’ve given up finding monster claw marks on the floor, gnawed gashes in the wooden crib, anything that
The Winter Issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, poetry, non-fiction and photography.