The school was deserted, harsh fluorescents illuminating a lone figure: my son Sam, waiting patiently, eyes hollow in the twilight. An apology slipped from my lips, unanswered. The car's interior was unusually chilly.
The rearview mirror showed Sam's reflection, but his eyes didn't gleam with their usual life. He seemed distorted, as if under rippling water. I blamed the late hour.
As we neared home, I felt a growing unease. We pulled into the driveway. His reflection in the mirror was gone, leaving me to wonder who, or what, was sitting in the back seat, emitting a strange, guttural hum.