CHOICE: A: Investigate the window.

Whatever fight your parents are getting into downstairs sounds serious. Beyond serious. Has your Dad ever broken something out of anger before…? You don’t remember so, but that just proves that Karen - the evil step mother - has to go.

But that also means they’re way too busy to bother. Not that you’d want to get involved anyway. Slide under the radar, that’s your motto.

The texts are probably some stupid scam or telemarketer. Advertisers are getting more and more creative with their infiltration methods anyway. You stow the phone in a pocket, feeling a buzz against your thigh. Another message.

Despite that, you can’t take your eyes off the window.

You hadn’t realized how long you stood in complete stillness, listening for any other sound in the house. Your parents have quieted at least. Maybe a good thing. But that scratching sound at the window....just remembering it sends a chill spidering down your back.

Slowly, you creep forward. Not out of bravery, though you’d like to think so. It’s out of pure curiosity though. That phrase? Curiosity killed the cat? Well, you’d gotten into trouble being that cat many times over the years. Especially after mom died…

Warnings signals blare in your brain, but you slowly lift the window higher, sounds of the night flooding in. Crickets. Leaves rustling. No trees can reach your window with the roof over the porch slanting down just a foot beneath you, but you can see them swaying ever so slightly.

You glance around the roof, what you can see of the yard. Maybe it's just a stray cat or something trying to get inside. It wouldn’t be the first time it has happened in this neighborhood. But only dark shapes meet your stares.

There’s nothing out here. But you could have sworn you heard…

From the side of your window, a hand shoots out, grabbing onto your shirt at the shoulder. Easily, whoever it is pulls you out onto the roof. Your hands brace your fall on the rough roof tiles, scraping delicate palm skin. The snatcher keeps you from rolling down to your death, two hands pulling you close.

When you finally whip your head around, you can’t see any distinguished features, but can smell oil and grease on them.

“Don’t scream,” he instructs, an amused lilt to his voice.

You do scream. You scream as loud as you can.

He shakes you, covering your mouth. Not that that stops you. “I’m here to help you, dimwit. Quit it.”

Why would you believe him? You scream and scream. Especially after he gives an exasperated sigh and releases your lips. You kick and try to roll away, but his grip is like iron. Quickly, he turns you around and holds you close to his chest.

Then leaps into the air.

Your screams become begs for mercy. This isn’t how you die!

Somehow, impossibly, he lands in your backyard without injury, still holding you safe. The jolt shuts you up for a moment, adjusting to your sinking stomach.

“We need to get you out of here,” he says, muttering. “You have a car?”

Your senses return enough to kick backwards with your heel at his knee. It kind of hurts. You’ve never been in a fight before, but you continue doing it, over and over, despite his lack of reaction.

Finally, with another sigh, he drops you.

Quickly, you roll away in the grass, searching the yard for an escape. There’s the gate toward the front of the house, but he’s in your path.

Or you could try to use the grill to climb over into your neighbor’s yard. If you can make it fast enough, he won’t be able to catch you. You know this neighborhood well.

“If you run,” he warns, “they’ll find you. And let’s just say, they’re not as polite as I am.”

Polite? What the hell is his definition of polite?

You:

A: Go for the front gate

B: Try to climb over the fence

C: Give him a chance to explain

***Deadline for choice: August 10th, 2017 11 PM Mountain Time***