"Phew..."

  I let out a sigh of relief upon stowing away the mop and bucket ihe utility closet. Now that the work day was nearing its end, I could feel the full weight of my fatigue crashing down on my shoulders.

  Do I really have to shower tonight? I'm beat!

  As if reading my mind, the manager calls out to me from across the room. Dale and his wife, Diana—owners of the local venieore—are behind the ter by the cash register, tallying the day's earnings. I stop flexing my arm and turn to meet his wrinkled gaze.

  "You mind grabbing the trash?" he asks.

  "Sure thing, Mr. Robinson."

  "Daisuke," Mrs. Robinson calls out . "We hahe rest ourselves. It's been a long day; why don't you head home a some rest after taking care of the trash?"

  Her suggestion, of course, is musiy ears, but I still find myself asking, "Are you sure it's okay?"

  "Bah!" Mr. Robinson exhales nosily. "We may not be young whippersnappers anymore, but we still have enough energy to get things done. Isn't that right, dear?"

  He nudges her provocatively with his elbow.

  "Oh you~" Mrs. Robinson giggles softly, the gentle folds around her cheeks turning bright pink with embarrassment.

  I 't help but ge at the se that happens more frequently than I would like. Agh! Gross! Please don't flirt while I'm here!

  As I hurry for the trash to make myself scarce, a radiant smile spreads ay lips. The Robinsons, true to their nature, are very warm and passionate individuals; one doesn't o be an acquaintance for them to shower you with kindness.

  They aren't quite aware of it, but they are the closest sembnce of family or friends in my life. My parents met a tragid five years ago in a car act, and life has steadily spiraled downward ever sihe house and car were repossessed, uy became a distant dream, and the absence of familial ties meant I faced my struggles alone, with no helping haended.

  Yes, I am alone.

  I never khe world to be so cold and terrifying.

  However, just as I was about to fall into plete and utter despair, I was saved by the Robinsons. They are my proverbial life vest iurbulent sea of life. Whehing around me sinks into a watery abyss, they keep me afloat by a job when no one else would.

  And, sihey weren't able to have any kids of their owo medical plications, they treat me like their very own grandson. I'm eternally thankful for that. Being with them gives meaning to my lowly existence.

  To be pletely ho, the pay here isn't really that great, and I'm pretty sure the stant flirting has killed off a signifit portion of my brain cells. Yet, the reality is, I wouldn't exge this job for anything else in the world.

  However, let's not paint an overly rosy picture here. There are aspects I'd trade away in a heartbeat. And as I muse over this inveruth, the very nightmare I alluded to begins to take shape, like clockwork.

  "Hahaha!" an eerie ugh reverberates through the air, remi of a se from a scary movie. "The hour is nigh. Your doom approaches."

  My heart skips a beat.

  The bone-chilling voice came from a Lyrebird that the Robinsons keep as a pet inside a birdcage. Lyrebirds, renowned mimics, effortlessly replicate any sound, and this particur one has decided to transform my time at the store into a se from a horror film.

  Following the high soprano voice, the bird begins simuting an ominous melody that could serve as the background theme in the aforementioned genre of films. However, the Lyrebird is the least of my s.

  Breaking into a sweat, I nervously s the surroundings. Nighttime has fallen, the store is closed, and the aisles are void of people. The Robinsons are occupied at the front, but another lifeform lurks in the building.

  As thoughts of the creature race through my mind, a memory surfaces: the sensation of my foot actally squishing a toy catfish belonging to a giant snapping turtle, the anguish it dispyed, and its expression transf into s and malice.

  That's right, for the past few weeks, I've been hunted by a monstrous predator out seeking revenge for its toy plushy, and the Lyrebird is just along for the ride—sensationalizing each episode and bringing my appoi with the therapist that much closer.

  PLOP!

  I snap my head to the side at the sound of something falling from a low shelf, but there's nothing there. Regardless, I don't stay still; I move around, looking for the enemy. Again, I hear something fall oher side of the shelf. I swallow, ing around the shelf to take a peek. There, on the floor, is a bag of rice.

  Am I just being paranoid? I poo myself. Maybe I'm actually getting a break from this madoday.

  Before I breathe a sigh of relief, I hear a shuffling noise behind me, like a sack of sand being dragged along the floor. A chill runs down my spine. My head hesitantly pivots around like a creaking door, but there's nothing there.

  In the er of my vision, I notice the Lyrebird cog its head and throwing its voice across the room to create these auditory distras. Before my fear dissipate, swelling inte instead, I sense an evil presend catch a blur of movement.

  Behind me, Oscar—the pet snapping turtle that resembles a small dinosaur—extends its neck robotically and catches the hem of my pants.

  "Finish him!" the Lyrebird announces.

  I bnch, and in a whimper, I plead, "Please don't."

  But my sniveling only seems to add fuel to the fme. Oscar's eyes fsh menagly before he spirals into a death roll, simir to what crocodiles and alligators do to shred their food. I cry out as my body spins like a top before smming into the hard ground.

  Then, the Mortal Kombat voice rings out again, "Fatality!"

  "Is everything all right back there?" Mr. Robinson calls out.

  Oscar spits out the rge se of my pants he ripped away, his eyes narrowed challengingly as he slowly backs away, dario fight back.

  "E-Everything's fine," I respond back like a defeated coward as Oscar tinues his victorious retreat, his eyes lit like ser beams.

  "Your hell has only just begun," the Lyrebird decres in a thick, dark at remi of an older tury.

  "What are you, a transtor now?" I snap back, only ever having the gall to challehe bird.

  From my p the floor, I look up at the Robinsons and release a long sigh, pting whether I prefer getting my brain cells fried or enduring sistent bullying and torment from animals.

  Holy, I don't like either.

  I'm pretty sure a few more weeks of this would have nded me in a straitjacket and admitted into a loony bin.

  But what could I do?

  Although the Robinsons' choice of pets is beyond bizarre, I genuinely enjoy their pany. As an expression of my gratitude, I try my best to mahe workload so they won't strain themselves too much. Ideally, at their ripe old age, they should have loired, but the stubborn old bags are sadly a pair of hopeless workaholics.

  "Be careful not to strain yourself now," Mrs. Robinson cautions as I solidate all the trash into one a its weight.

  "Che~" Mr. Robinson pyfully clicks his tongue. "In my prime, I lifted twice the weight; don't spoil him, Ma. A young d like him should be finding a nice ss instead of flexing his muscles on trash."

  "A girlfriend on my wage?" I gre at him with mock humor. "Don't make me ugh, Old Man! If you wao break free from being a hopeless bachelor, then loosen those purse strings a bit!"

  "No way," he murmurs in response, his cheeks puffing up like a pufferfish. "Find a girl first, then we'll talk."

  "Not gonna happen!"

  "If you need moo find yourself a good girl, then you're probably not looking in the right pce, dear," Mrs. Robinson suggests with a smile.

  "Oh Ma," Mr. Robinson bends a knee and galntly cups his wife's hand, his eyes gleaming like nterns. "Your words of wisdom and ravishiy are like a gentle breeze across an open meadow in spring."

  "Oh Dale!"

  "Oh Diana!"

  PUHSHHH!

  The Lyrebird mimics the sound of the o crashing against a cliff, followed by a soothing chorus of bird calls that adds a romantic ambiao the se.

  I feel my brain cells writhing in agony as I watch this dramatic se unfold. Refusing to eain this insanity any longer, I make a swift escape.

  The door chimes as I exit the store, the trash bag slung behind my back as if I'm a homeless bum. Inhaling deeply of the crisp, smog-filled air, I'm greeted by the distant sounds of cars humming and sirens wailing—a symphony of the metropolis that had bee all too familiar. My gaze shifts toward the t mos of steel that punctuate the dark night sky, their lights casting a glow on the urban ndscape.

  A stray cat scurries off into the alley as I approach the dumpster. I sch up my face at the unpleasant odor, hastily ridding myself of my load. Taking a moment to reflers. Robinson's words, I find myself uo decipher her meaning.

  Before I turn to leave, I hear a familiar voice that makes my heart sink to my toes.

  "Well, well, well... now isn't this a pleasant surprise!"

  Vaughn_RR_Seider