The fingers pushed aside a valise, but the soft bag didn’t move much, jammed up between a tote and a hardside Samsonite bag like Moe, Larry, and Curly wedged into a door. The fingers – one truncated, all bloody – twitched as they searched for ingress to the burrow. Ken watched. I can let it happen. No one else would know. Not until too late. It would be quick. Probably more merciful than running, too. What would running get them, after all? He saw Derek’s face. The boy throwing back his head and shrieking, blood erupting from the child’s skin as his pores hemorrhaged. Painful, yes. But quick. The fingers looked longer now. More of them, too. Another hand? Christopher made a noise. Not a eureka sound, more of a ”Maybe over here?” grunt. The luggage shifted a bit more. The Three Stooges were still wedged together, but Ken could see that wouldn’t last long. “No, dammit.” Christopher moved to a different spot. Just let go. Go to Derek. Ken saw his son as he had been. Beautiful, with blond hair that was so often sopping with sweat, his smile wide and slightly buck-toothed.
