Just in Case

      by Phyllis Wax

It’s five on a January morning.  The heat is creeping through
the baseboard pipes.  At least I think it’s the heat.  I can
hear the creaking of floorboards as it moves from room to room.
It tiptoes through the kitchen, the living room.  Now it’s in 
the long hallway.  Soon the bedroom.

I keep my eyes closed, pretend to be asleep.  I pull the covers
over my head.