The boy hated sirens, especially in the middle of the night. "Bat-shees!" he'd called them when they went off a few nights after they'd seen Darby O'Gill on cable, and it had taken Jim a few minutes to realize that he was saying "banshees." Jim was sitting up in bed before he remembered that he did not have to worry about Terry crying in the night. He had not had to worry about that for a long time now. What was it, four years? Five? But still, whenever the sirens wailed he thought of going into Terry's room to stay with him until silence returned. He fell back in the bed and felt Beth stir beside him. "Bastards," she moaned, covering her head with the pillow. He snorted a half laugh in the dark and rolled onto his side, hoping the keening sound would soon stop and the dogs stop quickly after. But the sirens screamed on and the dogs kept barking. Melba, their Persian cat, began to growl from somewhere under the bed, and Beth took the pillow away from her ears. "Melba," she called softly.
