Trollhunters by Guillermo del Toro, Daniel Kraus

home on time. Nighttime is dangerous for everyone, but especially boys of Jim’s age—”
    Gulager cleared his throat.
    “Sir, it’s not J-J-Jim that I’m talking about.”
    Dad adjusted his glasses by the Band-Aid and squinted.
    Gulager drew a report book from his back pocket and flipped it open.
    “May the twenty-sixth, seven-oh-five p.m. We picked him up a bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-block away—”
    “Well, that’s two blocks, really, if you count Oak Street—”
    “June the fifth, seven-ten p.m., two huh-huh-hundred feet away—”
    “It was raining that night. Anything can happen in the rain—”
    “July the ninth. August the tenth. September the th-th-th-th-third.”
    “Sergeant. I’d like to stop calling you. I would. But the world is a dangerous place. Surely, you of all people…”
    Gulager raised an eyebrow and a portion of his gnarled scar dipped beneath the edge of the shaggy toupee. For a few seconds Dad looked obstinate before his shoulders sagged.
    “I know,” he whispered. “I apologize.”
    While he wasn’t being looked at, Gulager’s eyes flitted about the room, taking in the steel shutters, the three control panels’ worth of blinking lights, the front porch
security camera buzzing above his head. Lastly his eyes landed on me and I read his sympathy. I felt both grateful and offended. I stuck out my chin and Gulager sighed.
    “Luh-luh-look, Mr. Sturges.” He crooked a thumb at his cruiser. “I need to drop off the portly one. I’m not going to raise any k-k-k-k-kind of official stink about this.
But I want to explain something, and I wuh-wuh-want you to pay attention. There
are
dangerous things out there. And those dangerous things n-n-n-n-n-need our attention. That’s why
you are not to call us again. Not for something like th-th-this. We cannot spare the manpower. Am I muh-muh-making myself perfectly clear?”
    “Of course.” Dad’s voice was soft. “Thank you.”
    Gulager held our eyes for a moment longer as if showing his willingness to listen if there was something else we wanted to say. But one thing we Sturgeses were good at was keeping our mouths
shut. Gulager nodded briskly enough that his boyish wig shimmied, snapped shut his report book, and turned away, donning his hat. The security camera tracked him on his way to the cruiser.
    Dad closed the door and began the safety song of the ten different locks, though this rendition was more maudlin than I’d ever heard it:
Click. Rattle. Zing. Rattle. Clack-clack-clack.
Thunk. Crunch. Whisk. Rattle-rattle
. I held my breath for the final note, the conclusive
thud
. But Dad’s hand had quit working. His thumb slid off the deadbolt and dangled at
his side.
    When he faced me, his lips were quivering.
    “I have my reasons, Jimmy. I know it seems unfair. All I’m asking is that you honor my request. Be home before dark. Son? Please? Be home before dark?”
    I felt anger. I felt frustration. I felt pity. All were emotions I didn’t like feeling about my dad. He was losing it. Year by year, day by day, he was getting worse, and it reminded me
too much of myself in the school parking lot that afternoon, jumping at shadows and hallucinating monsters.
    “I don’t get it,” I said. “I just don’t get why.”
    He leaned in, so close I could smell the salt of his welling tears.
    “Because it is not safe.”
His jaw shook; the teeth rattled. “I’ve lost too much already, and I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. And it
won’t, not on my watch.”
    I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me. It wasn’t the cheekbone bruise from my trash compacting or the blisters on my hands from the gymnasium rope or the scuffed knees from
the parking lot chase. As always he was distracted by his own murky memories of the older brother who once called him “Jimbo.” He turned, punched complicated codes into all three
control panels and waited for the varied automated responses:
Residence Secured. Total Lockdown