Written when I was twelve, so copyright 1992. It doesn't have a title, because apparently I could never come up with one that didn't give the ending away... I woke up this morning to find Dad sitting, as usual, at the kitchen table with the cup of coffee he could not do without. It was – I glanced at the clock – four-thirty in the morning. Four-thirty! He got up early, I knew, but not this early. Come to think of it, there had been some commotion in the night. Maybe something had happened; maybe Granny had died! That would be terrible! Dear old Granny. She was the only one who drank tea in the mornings. She did not believe in coffee. “Too much caffeine,” she said. Dad got up, mumbling something about getting some sleep. What had he done all night if he had not slept? I knew I would probably find out at breakfast, so I tried to go back to sleep. I kept thinking about all of the horrible things that might have happened, and it was over an hour before I finally fell asleep. I woke