"Bye?" Trevor asked/said.​ He, too, disappeared. 

​     And a good thing, too, because right then the door to that room opened, and a police officer peeked in to get a quick look around. Trevor wanted to gasp so bad, but he didn't dare. That'd tip off the cops for sure. 

​     In the distance, Trevor heard barking. 

     Oh no, they're bringing in the dogs, he thought. They won't have to see me. They'll be able to smell me. So how in the...

     Trevor felt a slight tug on his arm. It was the old man telling him it was time to move.

​     Trevor took slow, measured steps towards the door. Walking invisible was like walking in the dark. That one police officer had moved on by then, but he'd left the door wide open. Cool. Two more police officers stood in the hallway. The old man tugged on Trevor's elbow this way and that to steer them both past the blue uniforms to get to the stairs leading up. The door leading to the back yard was open, but two cops blocked the doorway itself. No getting out that way. They climbed the stairs behind a cop going up. In the kitchen at the top of the stairs, they passed a pair of police officers who interviewed some distraught old lady who probably lived there. Gramps led Trevor through a now open back door and down a small flight of stairs. They walked around to the front of the house, pausing here, stopping there, to avoid coming in contact with one of the dozen or so police officers who now arrived on the scene.

     And where were those damned barking dogs, anyway?   

     They didn't walk fast, but they did walk away, away from that house, away from those cops, away from the sirens and the barking dogs and the guns. A quarter mile away, and the streets looked the way they always did with the cars and the people on foot going on about their daily business. 

     They reached a car in an alley. It had a shine to it like a rental.

     "Hi," Gramps said, and he returned to visibility.

​     "Hi?" Trevor asked/said. Visible again, he looked down at himself. Oh my God. How could he have torn himself apart so thoroughly in such a short amount of time? He had mud all over his body, blood streaks all over his body. There was a pretty sizable gash on his belly where a shard of glass from the basement got him.

​     "I need to ask you to do something," Gramps said.

     "What?" 

     "I need you to get rid of that gun."

​     "The...oh..." He'd forgotten he still had it. 

​     "This is my car." He opened the trunk. "Let's put the gun right in there."

     "Sure." Trevor did as he asked.

     Gramps slammed the trunk shut. He extended his hand. "Your name's Trevor, isn't it? Trevor Harper?" 

     "I...I..." 

     "I'm very pleased to meet you, Trevor. My name is Gramps. Everyone but my daughter calls me Gramps."

     "Uh...Uh..." 

     "What do you say we get the hell out of here, Trevor?" 

CONTINUE