You begin to giggle, grow helpless with laughter. There is a timid knock on the door. Sheila says, “You okay in there?”

        You try to smother the laughter and tell her you're okay. But you're not okay. It's a hopeless no-end situation and you can't stop laughing.

        Taking deep breaths, you try to calm down, but your heart flutters, pounds so hard it hurts your throat. Eyes blur. You are dizzy. Maybe you're having a stroke.

        You see the computer screen wink into standby. This life is over. The word is out—child molester, adulteress, empty-headed slut.

        The approaching snarl of footsteps brings comeuppance. You're going to get it. You're going to get it good.

        You look around the room, examine the wreckage, and you think about what you should have done the instant fingers touched fur and lightning danced down a naked wire.

        “Oh, Kaylee,” you whisper.

Editor's Choice Award, Eric Hoffer Contest, September 2008