The first thing Daniel Mercer heard that morning was the dog barking.
Not the alarm clock on the nightstand, which he'd set for six and which still had another twenty-three minutes before it would begin its irritating electronic chirping. Not the occasional rumble of a tractor-trailer traveling along Interstate 68. And certainly not his wife, who could sleep through a thunderstorm provided nobody touched the thermostat.
It was the damned dog.
“Roscoe!” Daniel shouted.
The barking stopped.
For approximately three seconds.
Then it started again.
Daniel opened one eye and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere downstairs, the dog was apparently engaged in a life-or-death confrontation with something beyond the kitchen window. A squirrel, probably. Maybe the neighbor's cat.
He rolled onto his side and looked at his wife.
Laura was sleeping with one arm tucked beneath her pillow, her dark hair scattered across the pillowcase. At forty-three, she was still the prettiest woman he'd ever known, although he'd learned long ago that telling her so before she'd had her coffee was an invitation to an argument.
“Your dog's barking,” he whispered.
Nothing.
“Laura.”
She made a small sound that might have been a word.
“Your dog.”
“Then tell him to stop.”
“I did.”
“Try asking nicely.”
Daniel sighed.
They'd been married nineteen years, and he was reasonably certain that somewhere around year seven, Laura had developed the ability to carry on entire conversations without actually waking up.
He threw back the covers.
The bedroom was cold. October had arrived in Preston County with its usual disregard for the calendar, bringing chilly mornings, afternoon sunshine, and the occasional frost that reminded everyone winter wasn't far behind.
Daniel pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a faded West Virginia University sweatshirt he'd owned since before his daughter was born.
Downstairs, Roscoe was standing at the back door, his tail wagging furiously.
“You better have a good reason for this.”
Roscoe, a seventy-pound Labrador retriever who possessed the intelligence of a kitchen sponge and the appetite of a small bear, responded by barking once more.
Daniel opened the door.
The dog bounded into the yard, stopped beside the maple tree, and began sniffing a patch of grass with the intensity of a detective examining a murder scene.
Daniel watched him for a moment.
“Idiot.”
Roscoe looked up, wagged his tail, and went back to sniffing.
Daniel closed the door and turned toward the coffee maker.
The kitchen was still dark except for the small light above the stove. Through the window, he could see the first suggestion of daylight spreading over the hills beyond their property.
He loved this time of morning.
Before the traffic. Before the phone calls. Before somebody needed something fixed, delivered, picked up, or explained.
Before the world remembered he existed.
He filled the coffee maker, measured out enough grounds to produce something strong enough to strip paint, and pressed the button.
Then he reached for his phone.
Three messages.
One from his supervisor, sent at 10:47 the previous night, reminding everyone about a mandatory safety meeting on Friday.
One from his younger brother, Michael, who lived in Las Vegas and apparently still hadn't figured out the three-hour time difference.
And one from his daughter.
Daniel smiled when he saw her name.
Dad, don't forget you promised to look at my car this weekend. It's making that noise again.
He typed a reply.
Which noise?
The answer came almost immediately.
The expensive one.
He laughed.
At twenty-one, Emily Mercer had inherited her mother's stubbornness, her father's sarcasm, and absolutely none of either parent's ability to save money. To Emily, saving money meant hanging on to it until the weekend, when she could go shopping without giving a moment's thought to what she might need that money for come Monday morning.
Daniel had tried explaining the concept of an emergency fund.
Emily had listened politely, nodded, and bought herself a new pair of shoes.
She was attending West Virginia University in Morgantown, working part-time at a restaurant, and driving a twelve-year-old Honda Civic that seemed determined to consume every spare dollar Daniel possessed.
“Probably be better off giving in and helping her buy something newer,” he muttered.
He thought about the balance remaining on his truck loan.
“Then again, maybe not.”
He typed another message.
Bring it over Saturday. And don't drive it if it's making a really bad noise.
Define really bad.
Emily.
Love you too, Dad.
He shook his head and set the phone down.
Outside, Roscoe had apparently concluded his investigation and was scratching at the back door.
Daniel let him in.
The dog headed straight for his food bowl.
“Of course.”
Daniel scooped kibble into the bowl, wrinkling his nose as the familiar odor rose from the bag. To him, the stuff smelled like old attic leather soaked in beef broth. Still, it was considerably better than the canned variety, which he considered one of the most offensive substances ever manufactured for domestic use.
Roscoe, apparently lacking Daniel's refined culinary standards, began eating as though he'd been starving for a week.
“You're welcome.”
He topped off the dog's water, rinsed his hands, and carried his coffee into the living room.
The television came on to a morning news program out of Pittsburgh.
A weather map filled the screen. Temperatures in the forties. A chance of rain by evening. Cooler weather expected over the weekend.
Nothing unusual.
Daniel settled into his recliner and took a sip of coffee.
The news anchor moved on to a report about a highway construction project, followed by a brief story concerning several patients being treated for an unidentified illness at a hospital somewhere in Pennsylvania.
The reporter mentioned that health officials were investigating but had not identified a common cause.
Daniel barely listened.
Hospitals treated sick people. That was rather the point of having them.
Besides, the anchor had already moved on to something about gasoline prices.
He reached for the remote and changed the channel.
A fishing show.
Much better.
At 6:18, Laura Mercer came downstairs wearing her bathrobe and an expression suggesting she was considering filing for divorce.
“Why is it freezing in here?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Daniel.”
“It's sixty-eight degrees.”
“That's freezing.”
“That's two degrees warmer than you insisted we keep it all summer.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It was summer.”
Daniel considered arguing the point, then decided he had several more years of marriage he'd like to enjoy.
You had to pick your battles.
He stood and headed for the kitchen.
“Coffee's made.”
Laura followed him.
“Did you let Roscoe out?”
“Yep.”
“Feed him?”
“Yep.”
“Water?”
“Yep.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“What did you do wrong?”
“Nothing yet. Give me time.”
He paused, watching her reach for a mug.
“You know, it's amazing when you think about it.”
Laura glanced over her shoulder.
“What's amazing?”
“Well, Roscoe is your dog, but somehow I'm the one who gets all the chores that go with him.”
“He loves you.”
“He loves anybody who knows where the dog food is.”
“He's very attached to you.”
“He's attached to the food bowl.”
Laura smiled despite herself.
“You're the one who wanted a big dog.”
“I wanted a dog that would fetch the newspaper and occasionally discourage burglars. Instead, we got a seventy-pound eating machine that's afraid of the vacuum cleaner.”
“He's family, Daniel.”
“Yeah, well, so is your mother, and at least she doesn't shed all over the furniture.”
Laura gave him a look.
Daniel lifted his coffee cup.
“See? Picking my battles.”
She laughed.
Laura worked as an administrative assistant at a medical practice in Morgantown, a job she'd held for almost eleven years. She liked the people, tolerated the paperwork, and complained regularly about the drive.
Daniel worked maintenance for a commercial property management company, spending most of his days traveling between buildings in Morgantown and the surrounding communities.
Between them, they earned enough to pay the mortgage, keep two vehicles running, help Emily with college expenses, and occasionally pretend they might retire someday.
They had a little savings, though never quite as much as Daniel would have liked. Every time they managed to put something aside, the furnace needed repairing, the truck needed tires, or Emily's Honda developed another expensive personality disorder.
It wasn't a glamorous life.
But it was theirs.
Laura poured her coffee and leaned against the counter.
“Did Emily text you?”
“Car's making a noise.”
“Again?”
“Apparently.”
“She needs something newer.”
“She needs something with fewer problems. Newer isn't necessarily the same thing.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Don't start.”
He raised both hands in surrender.
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
There it was again. Another battle best left unfought.
Laura took a sip of coffee.
“Oh, and Mom called yesterday.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
That was never the beginning of a short conversation.
“What does she need?”
“Nothing.”
“Laura.”
“She just wanted to know if we're coming for dinner Sunday.”
“And?”
“I told her we would.”
“Of course you did.”
“She misses us.”
“We were there last Sunday.”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
Daniel frowned.
He was fairly certain it had been last Sunday.
But then, he'd also spent ten minutes looking for his glasses the previous evening before Laura pointed out they were sitting on top of his head.
Time had developed a disturbing tendency to get away from him.
“All right,” he said. “Sunday dinner.”
“And don't forget we're supposed to bring something.”
“Like what?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Wonderful.”
“Maybe you could make that potato salad everybody likes.”
“Everybody?”
“Yes, everybody.”
“Your mother said it needed more salt last time.”
“She says that about everything.”
“Then why am I making it?”
“Because she ate three helpings.”
Daniel considered this.
“Well, that's different.”
Laura reached across the counter and squeezed his hand.
He looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I love you, you idiot.”
He smiled.
“Yeah. I know.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Roscoe wandered into the kitchen, looked hopefully from one to the other, and sat down between them.
Daniel glanced at the dog.
“Don't even think about it. You've already had breakfast.”
Roscoe wagged his tail.
Laura bent down and scratched him behind the ears.
“Poor baby.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Nobody appreciates me around here.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
By seven-fifteen, Daniel was backing his pickup out of the driveway.
The sun had climbed above the eastern hills, illuminating patches of red and gold across the trees. A thin layer of fog lingered in the lower fields, and the air smelled faintly of damp leaves and woodsmoke.
He turned onto the road toward Bruceton Mills, passing familiar houses, barns, and stretches of pasture.
At the intersection near the convenience store, he stopped for a school bus.
Children climbed aboard carrying backpacks almost as large as they were. One little boy turned and waved at a woman standing on the porch of a nearby house.
She waved back.
Daniel watched them in his rearview mirror as the bus pulled away.
For some reason, the sight reminded him of Emily.
He could still remember her first day of kindergarten, standing beside the front door in a pink jacket, clutching a lunchbox decorated with cartoon princesses.
She'd been so excited to ride the bus.
Laura had cried after it drove away.
Daniel had told her she was being ridiculous.
Then he'd gone into the garage and cried himself.
He smiled at the memory.
Now she was twenty-one, attending college, working, and making decisions about her own life. Most days, Daniel was proud of how independent she'd become.
Other days, he wished he could put her back in that pink jacket and keep her little for another year or two.
His phone rang.
Michael.
Daniel glanced at the dashboard display and pressed the button on his steering wheel.
“Well, look who finally remembered he has a brother.”
“Good morning to you too, asshole.”
“It's four in the morning out there. What the hell are you doing awake?”
“Couldn't sleep.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
Michael worked security at one of the larger casino properties in Las Vegas. He'd moved west nearly fifteen years earlier, convinced he was going to make a fortune in real estate.
He hadn't.
But he'd found steady work, married twice, divorced twice, and developed a remarkable talent for making poor financial decisions.
In that respect, Daniel sometimes thought his brother and Emily had more in common than either of them would care to admit.
Daniel loved him anyway.
“You still having trouble with that supervisor?” Daniel asked.
“Nah. Different problem.”
“What now?”
Michael hesitated.
“Nothing important. Just wanted to call.”
Daniel knew his brother well enough to recognize a lie when he heard one.
But he also knew Michael would talk when he was ready.
“Well, I'm on my way to work.”
“Yeah. Figured.”
“You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You sure?”
“Jesus, Danny. I said I'm fine.”
“Okay, okay.”
There was a brief silence.
Then Michael said, “Tell Laura I said hello.”
“Will do.”
“And give Emily a hug for me.”
“She's twenty-one. She'd probably punch me.”
Michael laughed.
“Yeah. Probably.”
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you can call me if something's wrong, right?”
Another pause.
“I know.”
“All right, then.”
“Take care of yourself, Danny.”
“You too.”
They said goodbye.
Daniel drove another mile before realizing something about the conversation bothered him.
Michael almost never called without wanting something.
And he certainly never called at four in the morning just to say hello.
Daniel considered calling him back.
Then his work phone rang.
A tenant in Morgantown had discovered water leaking through the ceiling of a second-floor office.
By the time Daniel finished dealing with that, his brother was forgotten.
For the moment.
At 8:06 that morning, in a modest house a few miles outside Bruceton Mills, fifty-eight-year-old Thomas Whitaker sat at his kitchen table staring at a bowl of oatmeal.
His wife, Susan, stood at the sink washing dishes.
“You going to eat that or just look at it?”
Thomas didn't answer.
“Tom?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Your breakfast.”
“Oh.”
He picked up his spoon.
Susan watched him.
“You feeling all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You don't look all right.”
“Didn't sleep good.”
“You've been saying that all week.”
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
A dull headache had settled behind his eyes sometime during the night. He'd taken two aspirin before breakfast, but they hadn't helped much.
“Probably coming down with something,” he said.
“Then you ought to call the doctor.”
“For a headache?”
“For a headache that's been bothering you for four days.”
He sighed.
“I'll be fine.”
Susan dried her hands.
“Thomas Whitaker, if you're still feeling like this tomorrow, you're calling Dr. Bennett. I'm not arguing about it.”
Thomas smiled faintly.
After thirty-four years of marriage, he'd learned that particular tone meant the discussion was over.
“All right,” he said.
He took another spoonful of oatmeal.
Susan went back to the sink.
“You remember we're supposed to go over to your sister's Saturday?”
“Yeah.”
“She wants you to take a look at that porch railing.”
Thomas sighed.
“What's wrong with it now?”
“It's loose again.”
“It's been loose for three years.”
“Well, maybe you ought to fix it right this time.”
He looked at her.
“Whose side are you on?”
Susan laughed.
“Your sister's, apparently.”
Thomas smiled and shook his head.
He'd been promising to repair that railing since spring. Every time he went over, his sister reminded him. Every time he came home, he promised Susan he'd get around to it.
He supposed Saturday would finally be the day.
For a moment, the room seemed to shift slightly around him.
He gripped the edge of the table.
Susan turned.
“Tom?”
He waited until the sensation passed.
“I'm okay.”
“You sure?”
“Just got a little dizzy.”
She came over and put her hand against his forehead.
“You don't feel hot.”
“See? Told you.”
But when he tried to stand, his left leg didn't seem to cooperate quite the way it should.
He sat back down.
Susan stared at him.
“That's it. We're calling the doctor.”
Thomas opened his mouth to protest.
Then he thought better of it.
He looked down at his breakfast. The oatmeal had gone cold, and he suddenly realized he wasn't hungry anyway.
“Fine,” he said. “But I'm telling you, it's probably nothing.”
Susan reached for the telephone.
Outside, the morning sun was shining through the maple trees, and somewhere down the road a lawn mower started up.
It was an ordinary October morning in Preston County, West Virginia.
And Thomas Whitaker had absolutely no reason to believe it would be anything else.
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