WEST FAMILY HOUSE
Mrs. West walked down the stairs carefully as she heard the door bell again and again. As she got to the bottom of the stairs, she branched the kitchen to grab her frying pan in case she needed a weapon. "This should do," she said.
She opened her front door and froze in shock.
There, under the glow of the porch light, stood her son—Martin. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, caked with dried blood. A thick, hastily done bandage wrapped around one arm, and his eyes—once full of fire—looked hollow. He didn’t say a word. He just brushed past her like a ghost and collapsed onto the couch with a groan.
“Martin!” she gasped, quickly shutting the door and hurrying after him. “What in heaven’s name—where are you coming from? What happened to you? Why do you look like this
