The darkness spread just outside the cab’s window. It crept up the walk and nuzzled the front door of the Fenter home. Jason looked through it as a familiar silhouette framed by the window pane moved behind drawn shades.

His mother serving dinner.

Jason offered the driver a grand (half now and half later) to ensure he’d wait curb-side. The cabbie took the money and said something, but Jason wasn’t listening. He got out of the taxi—he in the darkness as the still-moving silhouette of his mother beat time against the rhythm of his steps.

Steps filled with anger and finality.

Steps wanting to turn and run away.

Steps carrying him to the front porch and the task at hand.

He wanted to hate them. But he wanted them to believe him.

And they hadn’t.

Didn’t.

Wouldn’t.

And so the rage and the sorrow fought for center stage.

The front door opened, and Jason lurched back. Before him, holding an over-stuffed bag of trash, stood his younger brother. The plastic garbage bag oozed from the boy’s fingers and lolled slinky-like down the steps before spilling its contents at Jason’s feet.

“Jason—what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Timmy. Dinner over?”

“Yeah, but. . .”

Jason pushed past him and went in. It was an old move—one he’d used against his younger brother in touch football a million times—years ago—in his life before. . .

From the entry hall, his mother’s silhouette reappeared, this time rippling in the glass blocks separating the front of the house from the kitchen. As Jason stepped forward, he watched a second silhouette undulate into view—his father. They’d seen his shadow too and knew it was too tall to be Timmy’s.

“Who’s there?”

His father’s voice lacked authority.

“Mom. Dad. I. . . ”

Jason moved around the partition and looked into the bewildered eyes of his parents.

“Jason—what are you doing here?”

“I already asked that, Mom.”

Timmy squeezed around Jason to stand against his dumbfounded mother and father. It was another football move, and it threatened Jason’s composure, but his father’s words saved him.

“Did you break out, son?”

“No, Dad, I didn’t break out. I got an early release.”

Tears welled in his mother’s eyes as his father wrapped a protective arm around Timmy.

“That’s not possible. You got life. No parole.”

“Things change, Dad. Outside the walls of this house, anyway.”

“Are you hungry?”

His mother fought her tears and began retying her apron as she spoke.

“I’m fine, Mom. I can’t stay. I just needed to tell you. . .”

Jason’s words were swallowed by the family’s frightened faces.

Looking past their huddle, Jason saw the huge, framed picture of Linda.

Dead and buried Linda.

Dead and buried Linda, the oldest child.

Dead and buried Linda the oldest child who Jason had been accused, tried, and convicted of murdering.

And looking at her face, he found his words.

“I got out because I volunteered for Mars. Part of the deal was a week of freedom before take-off. We leave tomorrow, so I came to tell you. Now that I have, I’ll go.”

His parents’ faces were stoic, but Timmy’s lit up before skepticism smothered the joy.

“No way. There’s no way they’d let a killer go to Mars.”

The thwack of his mother’s hand caused spittle to fly from Timmy’s mouth. Jason shook his head as his younger brother’s cheek grew a pinkish welt.

“Anyway, I guess you know it’s a one-way trip, so. . .”

Without waiting for a response, Jason turned, retraced his steps, and disappeared into the night.

# # #

The envelope came the next day and was addressed to “The Occupants,” but the writing was unmistakably Jason’s. Inside the envelope was a check wrapped in a note. The check was for $1,000,000. The note was short. The opening line which had consisted of several attempted and failed greetings had been crossed out, but the rest of the writing was strong and clear.

I volunteered to go to Mars as food—it’s better than being caged up on Earth.

Love,
Jason

THE END

Shawn Hansen is busy writing more stuff.