12:16 AM. He could already hear the stifled tears in his son's throat. Sammy's wide, grey eyes welled up, shimmering in what little light was left in the room. His curls were shaped by the tosses and turns of tonight's nightmare.

But this was the third time this week. He was tired. This game was getting old.

Sam, there's nothing
to be afraid of.

You think a flashlight
might help?

Sammy...

Yeah, Dad?