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Finnegan Sproule had been thinking about a surprise visit for several days.

Drive up to see Annie and Charlie and bring some New York with him. Now, lots of foods that were identified with the city

wouldn’t travel well. He couldn’t bring a slice from Joe’s Pizza or a dirty water hot dog from a street vendor or a fresh-off-the-grill

steak from Smith & Wollensky, not when there was a drive of several hours involved, but he could arrive with a variety of

bagels and some babka from Ess-a-Bagel. Maybe some cronuts from that place down on Spring Street, fruit tarts from Le Pain

Quotidien. If he brought along a cooler and some ice packs, he could treat them to some cheesecake and some sliced pastrami.

And wine. Definitely wine.

He’d also wander some of the other divisions of the publishing empire he was part of, grab a few advance copies for Annie

to enjoy. A Grisham that didn’t come out for another five months, or another novel from actor Tom Hanks. Some books for Charlie,

too, who Finnegan knew to be a reader.

His motives were not entirely altruistic. He could use a break from the city. It had been a hot, humid week and there wasn’t

much relief unless you wanted to run through a city-run splash pool with a bunch of grade-schoolers. So he decided to get

his twenty-year-old Porsche Boxster out of the garage and give it a good run.

He had packed an overnight bag and booked a bed-and-breakfast for two nights not far from where Annie and Charlie were living so he could make a weekend of it. Finnegan did not have a partner—it was just him. He’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but there’d never been a relationship serious enough that he wanted to share accommodation, and he was okay with that.

He set out in the morning, after the worst of the rush hour was over, although rush hour was never really over in New York.

But by eleven he was clear of the city and hitting the open road with the top down and AC blowing out of the vents.

The Porsche had no navigation system, but he had his phone hanging from a bracket on the dash to assist him with directions.

Stopped along the way twice for coffee and bathroom breaks, and by midafternoon, he was closing in on the place.

It occurred to him Annie and Charlie might not be there when he arrived, and if that happened, what was he to do? Especially

considering he was bringing some food that would need to come out of the cooler and go into a fridge. He put in a call to

Candace, with whom he had arranged things, and asked whether she could leave a key in the mailbox for him if Annie and Charlie

were out. He explained he wanted to surprise them.

She said she would be happy to oblige.

So when Finnegan arrived, and did not see Annie’s SUV in the driveway, he was glad he had planned ahead. He parked out front,

then walked back down to the road to the mailbox, where he found a key inside an envelope.

Just to be sure Annie wasn’t home, he rapped hard on the door several times. When there was no response, he unlocked the door

and opened it wide.

“Wow,” he said under his breath. “Do I have excellent taste, or what?”

He didn’t want to be overly intrusive. He decided he would just bring in all the goodies that needed to go into the fridge then wait on the porch for Annie and Charlie. He made two trips out to the Boxster, emptying the front trunk. He set the baked goods, like the cronuts and bagels, on the kitchen island where they couldn’t be missed. He made two small stacks of books. One for Annie, and one for Charlie.

He was heading for the front door when he heard something.

Chuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuff

What the holy fuck was that?

Whatever it was, it was coming from upstairs. He froze, held his breath, waiting for the sound to repeat.

Chuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuff

It was a noise that took him back. If he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like a toy train he’d had as a kid. A Lionel train his

father would set up around the tree at Christmas.

He had no business snooping around the house when no one was here, but then again, if that was a toy train, then maybe there

was someone here, and they hadn’t heard him banging on the door earlier.

“Annie?” he called out. “Charlie? It’s Fin! I brought treats! You guys home?”

Chuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuff

Evidently not.

Finnegan found curiosity getting the better of him. He had to know what that sound was. He went slowly up the stairs, hand

on the railing, and when he’d reached the second floor he stopped, not sure which way to go. The noise had stopped.

He went right, found what was clearly Charlie’s room. The Spider-Man bedspread, the Harry Potter posters on the wall. He returned to the top of the stairs and went the other way, poking his head into the master bedroom, and then he found the door to the studio.

Finnegan opened the door, stepped inside, and smiled.

There was the drafting table, set up just the way he’d asked for it to be. And from the looks of things, Annie had been doing

some work. He walked over, looked at a drawing she was in the middle of, as well as a sculpted figure to match.

“Jesus, Annie,” he said aloud. “What the hell is this?”

A creature that looked like a cross between a rat and a wolf, but standing upright, like a person. Its eyes narrow and menacing,

its teeth sharp.

“Annie, baby,” he said under his breath, “this is no Pierce the Penguin.”

He took in the rest of the room. On the floor was a miniature village made up of plastic building kits that Finnegan, again,

thought he recognized from his childhood. Model train accessories.

But where was the train? Or the tracks?

Chuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuff

The noise seemed to be coming from the hall.

Finnegan went back out but didn’t see anything. Maybe the sound hadn’t been coming from upstairs, as he’d originally thought,

but from the first floor, or even the basement.

He made his way back to the top of the stairs.

Took a step.

Chuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffchuff

He glanced down. Right there, spanning the top of the stairs, was a train track, and on it, a speeding locomotive with several

cars behind it.

It was impossible.

It hadn’t been there a second ago. He was sure of it. He’d come up these stairs two minutes earlier. There was no way he could have missed it.

But now it was here, and his foot had caught the edge of the track, knocked the red boxcar off, and now he was falling headlong.

He reached for the railing but missed, and down he went, step after step, rolling and rolling until he reached the foot of

the stairs, not moving, his neck snapped like a stick of celery.