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It wasn’t wind; Hank was absolutely certain of that. It felt like a solid mass drifted right against his arm and into the hallway behind him. For a moment, he played with the idea that he was just an old man and he was making it all up, but when the hairs on his arms stuck up again, he knew it wasn’t all in his head.
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Hank’s gun was in the car.
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The message was very delayed, which meant no presents for his friends, and no presents for himself.
“Let me make it up to you.”
“Just tell me what you want for Christmas. I can get you anything.”
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It’s been a long day at work, and now Connor is home.
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