Sarah’s voice came barreling up the stairs saying breakfast was ready. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that, couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t woken up to her staring at the wall, lying there until the day was long over.

  Michael threw off the covers. He smelled bacon and coffee. Bypassing his work suits, Michael slipped on a pair of jeans and a Polo and headed downstairs.

  Sarah was behind the stove in an apron, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way Michael remembered her. Looking like a mom.

  “It smells great,” he said.

  Sarah scooped sizzling strips onto a plate, blotted them with a paper towel to soak up the grease. “You talked to your boss, right?” Sarah set the plate onto the kitchen table.

  “Yeah.”

  “I just really don’t want anyone calling today.”

  Michael took his seat and poured a glass of orange juice. “They won’t. And I talked to the boys’ principal too. It won’t even count as a sick day.”

  “Good.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron. “Boys! Come on, we’re going to be late!”

  Like they were waiting outside the door, the twins walked in and took their places, Justin to his father’s left, Jeremy to the right. Black pants, black shirts, no words.

  Michael started to think they might not be ready for this, but as if she was reading his mind, Sarah pointed at his shirt. “You’re not really wearing that, are you?”

  Michael realized he was the only one in white, not exactly an appropriate color for the occasion. “I’ll, uh, change after we eat.”

  Sarah pulled off her apron, took a seat. She was wearing the black dress she wore for Jenny’s eighth grade graduation. The dress Michael teased her about because she was just like the other parents acting like it was some big deal. Sarah asked the boys if they liked their eggs. They gave little nods. Sarah didn’t respond, didn’t touch her food, she just sat there, staring at her empty juice glass. Michael told himself it’d get easier.

  After breakfast, the two-hour ride to San Angeles was quiet. Only Sarah spoke, and only once. She said, “This is good, this is going to be good.”

  When they got to New Parker Center, Michael kept the doors locked.

  “There’s something I have to say.”

  Sarah pulled on the handle. “We’ve already discussed this. Open it.”

  “Yeah, Dad.” Jeremy sat up and glared in the rear view, his eyes the size of golf balls. “You promised.”

  Michael didn’t know if that was true. He couldn’t remember promising, but he couldn’t remember not promising either. It had been like that lately, Michael’s recent memory had become a thick fog and as always, he was too exhausted to try and cut through it. Instead, he just wondered what kind of father would promise his children something like this and unlocked everyone’s door.

  The cop at the desk signed them in, told them to be sure to keep track of the time. Five minutes each, not a second more.

  Sarah grabbed the pen, signed her name. They had agreed she could go first. A uniformed officer led Sarah away.

  The desk cop pointed Michael and the boys across the hall. “Someone will come for you.”

  The waiting room was cold and small, the floor and walls a dull white. The boys were on the little couch. Jeremy sat with his fists pushed together, his steel-toe boot tap, tap, tapping. Michael wondered if Sarah had bought them just for today. Justin sat hunched over too, but different, like there should be a bucket between his feet.

  Michael felt he should ask if they were okay, give the boys a chance to back out. But Sarah said they had the right. What if it’d been his sister? Michael didn’t have a sister, but he understood what she meant. This would give them a little control, help them move past this.

  Michael locked eyes on the clock. Four minutes past nine.

  A cop called Michael’s name from the doorway. He got up without saying a word to the boys. The elevator took him down to an unmarked floor and a long hallway, the fluorescent lights and ceramic tiles part of the original building.

  They turned right at the next hallway. Sarah was down at the end. An officer led her by the elbow, her face speckled red, the same color dripping from her clenched fists. Sarah didn’t even glance at Michael as they passed, ragged breaths seeping through her plastered smile beneath a vacant gaze.

  Michael’s officer nudged him towards the door. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been advised of your rights. Do you have any questions?”

  He did have questions. What would he see on the other side? Did he really want to know what his wife was capable of? And what about the boys?

  The officer unlocked the door. Red glops covered the floor, fragments of Sarah’s footprints. Michael started to ask if it could be cleaned then realized how ridiculous that would be.

  “Mr. Adams, clock’s ticking.”

  Michael stepped inside. The dimly lit room smelled of blood and sweat. That’s what he remembered about Jenny’s birth. The complications. All that blood.

  It was three days before the doctor took Jenny out of the NICU bed and said they could hold her. Michael was scared because Jenny was so small, but once she was in his arms, he swore he’d never let go. He’d protect her from everything.

  But Michael failed.

  The monster who raped and murdered his baby girl sat naked, his hands cuffed to the top of the table. Sarah had kept her word, but just barely. Olsen’s eyes were swollen, but he could still open them.

  For a second, Michael thought this was the wrong guy. Olsen looked nothing like the family man with five adoring kids. Each of them had written Michael and Sarah at least once a week begging them not to come today. They asked for mercy. They said none of this would bring Jenny back. Sarah burned every letter.

  The cell looked like the interrogation room from an old cop show. Three bare metal walls, a fourth with the one-way mirror Sarah said she’d be behind. The only light flickered from the 60-watt bulb hanging over the table, where the naked monster looked like something out of a horror movie. Olsen’s face oozed blood. His nose flattened and mushed to the left. The whites of his eyes were clouded red. His left ear hung on by a few ropes of skin.

  Michael sat across from Olsen and stared at his hands. The top of the right one was a dark purple mass, the cuff smashed into the skin, looking like someone had slammed an anvil on it over and over. Even if Olsen lived, it’d have to be amputated.

  But Olsen wasn’t going to live. If he made it past today they’d still fry him tomorrow. That’s what Michael kept telling himself.

  An electric timer was mounted on the wall next to the mirror, thirty seconds already gone.

  Olsen’s attack on Jenny lasted a minute and fifty-three seconds. Some coward on the third floor caught the whole thing on video.

  Below the timer was an iron stand that held a sledgehammer, a fireplace poker, and an aluminum baseball bat, smudged red on the end.

  Olsen made a noise. It came out all mumbled through his broken jaw. Two teeth poked through his bottom lip. He was trying to speak, but Michael had heard enough of this prick’s voice. During the trial, Olsen made a full confession and cried the entire time. He said Jenny had smiled at him. He said he couldn’t help himself. He was sick.

  Olsen finally got out his words, clearer this time. “Finish it,” he said. “Please.”

  Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tried to remember the last time he’d held Jenny. She was only thirteen.

  “Kill me,” Olsen begged.

  Michael banged the table and drove it into Olsen’s chest, pinning him against the wall. Michael jumped to his feet. “You don’t get to decide.”

  The timer said Michael had three minutes.

  He walked over, told himself not to pick up the poker, but there he was, pulling it out of the stand, careful not to cut himself on the razor-sharp hook and pointed tip.

  Olsen moaned and Michael watched the seconds tick away. If Michael hit him once, that would be it. There’d be no stopping.

  At two-forty-two, Olsen said, “She cried for you.” Olsen cocked his head, raised the pitch in his voice mimicking some ditzy teenage girl. “My daddy, my daddy…”

  Michael spun around. Olsen leaned into it. But Michael let go of the handle and the poker flew past Olsen’s face, clanked off the wall.

  The timer hit Jenny’s minute fifty-three. The head of the sledgehammer was as wide as Michael’s fist. One hit is all it would take. Finished. The boys wouldn’t have to step foot in this room, lower themselves to this piece of shit. They wouldn’t have to hear Olsen’s goddamn voice.

  Michael reached out, picked up the sledgehammer and faced the mirror. The man staring back looked nothing like the man Michael had woken up as.

  The mirror thumped. It thumped again, Sarah pounding it over and over until Michael let the sledgehammer fall to the ground.

  The timer was down to one-fifteen, the moment Jenny had stopped fighting, and Olsen slammed her head into the concrete.

  Each passing second was one less for Olsen, a little closer to the death he deserved.

  Michael concentrated on the mirror. He saw the timer in the reflection. The buzzer rang. His boys would get their five minutes alone.

  EXCERPT FROM REPACKAGED PRESENTS

  To Feed an Army

  Until he joined the Army, Private Edwards had only seen the jungle on TV. He wasn’t prepared for the heat, and the air was so damn thick you could practically sip it. It hadn’t rained in days, but everything just stayed wet.

  Edwards had been moving all morning, alone on the run. Even though he’d lost most of his baby fat in basic training and these six months in the shit, Edwards felt just as heavy as he did in high school, when the kids used to point at his white, lumpy stomach and call him “Curdle King.”

  The sweat probably added another five pounds to his uniform and gear. When Edwards could go no further, he leaned against a tree and threw off his pack. He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t want to be a soldier. He just wanted to survive, maybe learn a skill. That’s why he’d requested to become a medic.

  Something moved to his right. Edwards grabbed his M-16 and aimed. The sunbeams coming through the canopy played tricks on his eyes. He heard squawks and the distant cry of a monkey. He figured it was nothing, but Rex was still out there. Edwards forced himself to stand. His feet began to tingle like he’d tied his laces too tight.

  Something fluttered. A rustling. Edwards wanted to take off running, but he stayed still, scoured the ground for tripwires. There was always something waiting to turn you into wet confetti.

  It was hard to believe that it’d been less than twelve hours since Edwards foolishly thought the real danger was gone. It’d been gruesome, but the worst of it was over. Their squad had taken the village and secured a massive food supply, Staff Sergeant Rex doing things Edwards spent the entire night trying to forget. But they were safe and just had to wait for the convoy. They’d be supplied for three months.

  Everyone knew Staff Sergeant Rex was a dope-fiend and had issues long before any of them had landed in country. But he was their superior and this was war. No one thought Rex would ever intentionally do anything to jeopardize their lives. There was talk that this was to be his last mission. Maybe that’s what sent him over the edge. Or maybe it was the heat. Or maybe he was just an evil piece of shit.

  Whatever it was didn’t matter. Edwards just wished he could get Rex’s knife tricks out of his head.

  An hour after breakfast, Rex had called everyone over to the open-walled hut where Ornalez, Shipley, and Curtis lay sleeping. Edwards was squatting in the bushes, halfway through a shit that was more of a spray. He almost yelled he’d be right there, then noticed no one else was hurrying. Jennings was last to join the group, his hand holding his stomach. Neither Rex nor Jennings said a word to any of the men still sprawled on the floor.

  Nothing special happened, there was no provocation. Rex just started blasting. Jennings and McKinney, headshot, headshot. Everyone else got one in the chest. The entire squad dead in seconds, tendrils of smoke curling from the barrel of Rex’s gun.

  That shit saved Edwards’ life, but he knew he had to keep moving. If he didn’t, he’d end up like the others, so Edwards started running again. He didn’t check for traps or hiding gooks; all those drills and training evaporated in the clammy mist. Sweat cascaded down his back and legs, dripped into his socks. He wiped his forehead and a chill ripped through him. A wave of nausea stopped Edwards short, and he doubled over in pain. Invisible hands were twisting his guts like they were wringing a wet towel. It was just like the time he’d had a bad oyster on vacation with his folks, his stomach cramping so hard he saw stars. But he’d barely touched the powdered eggs for breakfast. And last night he only had coffee and cigarettes, unable to eat after watching Rex’s wet work.

  Another sharp abdominal pain dropped Rex to his knees. The M-16 fell from his hands, and he grabbed his throat. It was closing up. He gasped but just barely. Something was moving near him, crunching over branches. He reached for his gun, but he fell onto the muddy leaves. He didn’t even try to get up, just curled into himself. His rifle lay a few feet away. Sweat rolled into his eyes, and he realized he couldn’t blink. Something awful was coursing through his veins. A spider or bug must have crawled into his clothes. He hadn’t felt anything bite him, but that had to be what happened. In training they’d been given a little book of dangerous insects, but he’d lost his the first week.

  Edwards tried to sit up but he couldn’t move. It was like he’d been filled with cement. If the enemy found him like this, he wouldn’t even be able to turn over. He’d just have to stare into his executioner’s eyes. He prayed it wasn’t anyone that’d escaped from the village. He knew what they’d do to him.

  Now everything was black. His eyelids had finally shut. He listened to the crunching steps coming closer. Closer…

  He struggled to look, but only a sliver of light came through before another round of darkness. He could hardly breathe. He prayed the birds were drowning out his sickly wheezing. He listened for the steps, wondered if he’d hear a growl or voice before the inevitable, but the crunching steps were growing faint. Whatever or whomever was angling off. Edwards figured he must still be hidden. His paralysis might actually be a blessing. If he could have moved, he’d have been spotted.

  Tiny pinpricks jittered up and down his fingertips, then hands and wrist. It wasn’t much, but his thumb was starting to bend. Maybe lying down was slowing the poison. The pinpricks were becoming more painful, but at least a sense of feeling was coming back. If the poison passed, Edwards could get to his pack. There was a vial of epinephrine. Why the hell had he taken off his gear?

  Again, he tried opening his eyes. It was like lifting a rusted roll-up door on a cargo truck, but he could make out glossy leaves. His vision was still blurred and he couldn’t turn his head, but he was sure he was lying next to a slow-moving black stream. He didn’t remember a stream before he’d fallen, but here it was, washing over him. He could feel it moving up his hands. It made no sense, but it had to be freezing, because the pinpricks spread over his arms and neck.

  Edwards tried to tilt his head to get a little of the water into his mouth. It was so close. A few pinpricks hit his chin. He wanted to scream. Then another loud crunch came from nearby. Another rustling. Edwards hoped it was a small, cute animal, that he’d open his eyes and see a cartoon fawn lapping at the stream. But he remained realistic. His luck, it’d be an anaconda.

  Then he heard a voice, a voice he knew. He’d heard it every day for the last six months.

  “Goddamn, Eddie. You come all the way out here to take a nap?” Rex’s words were mumbled. It sounded like he was wearing a gasmask. “If you wanted to sleep in, all you had to do was ask. You could’ve invited your friends here. Had a sleepover.”

  Edwards didn’t know what the lunatic was talking about, but he was actually relieved to hear the staff sergeant’s voice, especially so friendly. Maybe Rex didn’t want to be alone in the jungle. Rex could open his pack, inject the epinephrine. Even if it didn’t work, he might be able to carry Edwards to the village.

  “You feeling okay there, Eddie? You’re not looking so hot.”

  Edwards tried to speak, but all he could squeeze out were wheezing puffs of air.

  “I can’t hear you, bud. You gotta speak up.”

  Edwards tried to swallow, and Rex just laughed.

  “Ah, hell, I’m just fucking with you. You just lie still, buddy. I mean it, don’t move a muscle.” Edwards couldn’t see, but it sounded like Rex actually slapped his thigh. Any relief Edwards had quickly dissipated. Edwards curled his fingers, imagined them wrapping around Rex’s throat, but he gave up and tried to look in the direction of his pack. He couldn’t actually see it, but hoped that resetting his gaze and quickly looking left might get Rex to stop fucking around and help.

  “I gotta say, Eddie, for a blubbery piece of shit, you sure can move. I don’t know how you made it this far.” Rex started stomping the ground. “Goddamn, man, I don’t know how you aren’t flipping the fuck out, right now. That shit would be driving me crazy.”

  Edwards lifted his finger a few inches. He hoped he was pointing at his pack. Black beads of water slid towards his knuckle, then strangely crawled up the nail and twisted around his hand defying the laws of gravity.

  “I just figured if anyone was going to finish their eggs, it’d be a big fuck like you,” Rex said. “But I guess I’m lucky. If it’d been McKinney or Barklett I’d still be running my ass off.”