Later in the day, after a short siesta and another cup of tea, I venture back to my computer and the fantasy world of crime fiction. I work for two hours, writing three more pages of my new novel, untitled at the present time, when the sound of a dog barking jars my reverie.
A surge of fear pulses through me. I pull my hands away from the keys and sit back, listening. I cross my arms over my chest. Darth Vader barks. But the bark turns to snarls. And then someone screams.
I don’t notice the growing darkness outside until I peek out the window to where Bret Hicks and a handful of his high school chums hover over Darth in the backyard, teasing the beast with chicken scraps.
The five young boys gulp beer from bottles and suck on a joint, passing it among themselves, laughing. Country music
