bed sheets and scissors

mark camp looked over his shoulder the entire walk home from work. four hours of overtime put him one step closer to, well, something. he was pretty sure there was a reason for it. some goal. a jet ski? maybe.
the street was his wife in november. the walk home was necessary in a one car household. the route had been programmed in his brain. his pilgrimage to a better climate when the winds shifted. he didn't need this, it was all that he was. this goal, which for some reason eluded him.
glancing back again and then down a darkened alley, mark quickened his pace. he had heard of the ghost kids terrorizing the downtown area. they had tied an old woman to the tree in front of her house. her grandkids found her but the neighbors called the police. the kids? they just stared at her body, limp and yet so rigid in the pre-winter chill.
mark made the turn onto his street, adding an extra step in between the street lamps. the overtime pay was wonderful, but maybe he should just put his dream on hold until all this insanity blew over. what was he saving up for again?
to the front door, key in lock, shoes floor pajamas, wife asleep. mark camp closed his eyes and let sleep envelope him.
in the cold early morning the neighbors made another phone call to the police station. the children just stood on the sidewalk and stared. mark camp made his way to work, eyes on the prize, whatever that meant.