Jimmy had been sleeping without a stir underneath the brown and beige quilt and cream-colored linen sheets with his wife in his arms. However, he began to unwittingly shake his head in his slumber, a thin film of sweat forming on his slightly wrinkled brow as he groaned. He had been dreaming, memories playing in his head like a worn-out recording. He forced his mind's eye to see the images for the sake of a good night's sleep;

"Tomorrow mornin', my boys are gon' come over here and run you outta town," the policeman said, staring the handsome man with deformed hands right in the eye. "There's no place in Jupiter for freaks." His blood boiled beyond his comprehension and beyond its normal means—how dare he storm onto the grounds and belittle them?

"DON'T CALL US FREAKS!" he roared before taking out a knife and slashing the policeman's throat, leaving a deep gash with blood trickling out of the open wound. He collapsed to the ground, leaving the abnormally tall woman, man with short arms, and the conjoined twins in a state of shock. His deep, dark brown eyes stared at the man he just killed; he was also shocked that he could do such a thing. Then, the young man—

"AH!" he shouted, jerking up from his sleep and looking out the window on the side of the bed, still under the beige and brown comforter as he tried to take a breath. He then felt a familiar movement next to him, drawn ever closer and feeling a soft, delicate hand on his bulky shoulder.

"What is the matter?" a feminine, accented voice asked. He looked to his left and saw the face of his wife, the moonlight illuminating her ageless, beautiful face, her vivid green eyes and her golden hair. Jimmy sighed, keeping a blank face as he rubbed his eyes roughly.

"Just a nightmare," he muttered wearily.

"About…what?" his wife asked.

"Just…"

He didn't know what to say—he had killed that policeman over twenty-five years ago; he had told his wife about how bad he felt two years after they married, and he trusted her completely not to tell anyone. Being a trustworthy, loyal wife, she said nothing—at the time, she could only understand half of what he had been confiding in her with. English was not her first language, but she had become fluent over the years of being married to her husband and living in America.

"Ja?"

"Just…go to sleep," he said.

"But—"

"Britta, please," he said through gritted teeth. She gasped slightly, doing as she was told and laying back in her side of the bed, turning on her side so her back faced Jimmy. She frowned slightly and sighed, trying to get comfortable again. Her husband, feeling sorry for snapping at her, moved closer so he could spoon with her.

"I'm sorry, doll," he said apologetically. He rarely ever got mad at her; in fact, he got mad more times at his three sons than at her. Boys usually did stupid things and had weird antics and phases of their own. Britta, turning her head to look into her husband's dark eyes with slight age on them, felt him kiss her cheek as she blinked.

"Elina's birthday is tomorrow," she said, changing the subject. He smiled, holding her form close to his front with his disfigured hands; he had been born that way, his fingers fused together and his hands larger than average. Elina was their youngest child, a miracle that completed their family; she was special. Very special.

"Yeah, it is," he said with a smile, trying to close his eyes.

"She's thirteen," his wife added, a content sigh escaping her small, graceful lips. Jimmy chuckled and sighed, his warm breath caressing his wife's ear and blowing a few strands of her golden blonde hair.

"Already? It was only yesterday she was a baby," he said, pleasant memories replacing the guilt-filled ones that have long since passed. "I guess our little girl is growing up. I wish she could stay little." Britta laughed, the sound of her giggling filling the room and making her husband join in on the sudden laughter. She stopped with a breath before speaking.

"Annika grew up fast, too," she added. Their eldest child had been living in New York state since she was seventeen years old; how had she been doing? It had been so long since they'd seen her.

"Don't even get me started," Jimmy said, planting a kiss on the curve of his wife's slender neck; her heart raced and she sighed to relieve the jittery feeling inside.

"It's still late," Britta muttered, her Swedish intonation less heavy than it was in her youth; Jimmy still loved that part of her. Her voice was soft, like an angel speaking from heaven or a dove's feather blowing in the breeze of a warm, summer day.

"Good night, doll," he said, falling asleep in their spooning position.

"What're ya doin'?"

"It's supposed to be a surprise, dammit! Don't be so damn loud!"

"You're gonna wake 'er up," the third brother said.

"That girl sleeps like a rock," the second brother stated. "She ain't gonna wake up yet."

"Aw, goddammit, Jules! You burnt the toast!"

"That bacon is gonna splatter all over, Toby."

"You're makin' a mess! There's grease everywhere!"

"Shut up, Toby."

"Make me, ya pussy!"

The sound of light footsteps coming down the stairs silenced the three to a small degree; the oldest of the sons looked back from their efforts at making a surprise breakfast for their little sister, Elina, because it was her birthday. The eldest son tapped them both on the shoulders and whispered gently.

"I think it's her," he said quietly. "Be casual."

"It's probably mamma," the second eldest son assumed hotly. "They walk the same."

"Shut up, just—"

"Vad är det som händer här nere? Varför skriker du som ett gäng idioter?"

Britta looked at her three sons, Christopher, Julian, and Tobias as they all stared at her with relief; each of them took a sigh at their own pace. Fifteen-year old Julian, who was nicknamed "Jules", stared at her with his jaded green eyes and ruffled the front of his shaggy chestnut brown hair.

"Oh, hej mamma," he said in his youthful but deep voice. The children had all spoken English as a first language but knew Swedish, and spoke it with her all the time. Jimmy never minded, but when eating as a family, he certainly didn't want language to be an issue.

"Why do I smell burning?" she asked, peering over the shoulder of Christopher, her eldest son who was twenty with an athletic build and tall stature.

"This idiot burnt the toast," Tobias said casually, elbowing Jules—he was seventeen and incredibly handsome with short, shaggy blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, and his father's heart-stopping, dimpled grin. He also had quite a temper that got him in trouble at school with the principal.

"Hey!" Jules said, raising his hand as if to smack his brother upside the head.

"Boys! Enough!" Britta exclaimed, putting her hand to her forehead. "My God, can't you two get along?"

"Mamma, we were only trying to surprise Elina," Christopher said, looking down at his mother and into her ageless face. "We wanted to make her breakfast."

Britta's weary eyes looked around the kitchen—the counter was covered in a thick layer of flour and pancake mix with a greasy, empty bacon package resting on top of it. A few broken eggs with sac fluid flowing out of them rested next to it, and some even dripped down the lower cupboard and onto the linoleum floor, and a couple of failed attempts at perfect toast rested randomly on a cleaner part of the counter. On the stove were three skillets; one with a pancake about to burn, another with the last three strips of bacon, and another with eggs sunny-side up. She shook her head and looked at her three sons.

"That is very nice of you, but please clean this mess up before your father sees it," she said.

"Alright, alright," Toby said, rolling his eyes.

"Is the birthday girl awake yet?" Christopher asked, his brown eyes looking at his mother curiously.

"I'll go and see," she said, pointing to the huge mess they made while making breakfast for Elina.

As they started to clean up the mess and put the finished food on a dish, the Swedish woman went upstairs to see if her youngest daughter had been awake—she looked up, and at the top of the stairwell was Jimmy dressed in an button-up with old blue jeans, his graying auburn-brown hair slicked back as much as it could be. He was starting to lose his hair, as normal with aging, and his face definitely looked to be aged somewhat as compared to Britta—other than a few gray hairs amongst her blonde tresses, there had not been a wrinkle or a crow's foot near her eyes. She was ageless; the years had been good to her. She had, however, filled out and became fuller figured as compared to her youthful, willowy frame; her hips were wider and her breasts were fuller after having nursed five children during her marriage. She always wore her hair up in a bun or a braid, and it was to the middle of her back.

"Good morning, love," her husband said, coming down the stairs rapidly to greet her with a kiss. "Where are you going?"

"They made breakfast for Elina," she replied. "I am going to wake her up."

"Want me to?"

"Nej, I can," Britta replied, going up the stairs as she flattened out the skirt of her modest, floral patterned dress that was a mix of slate blue, gray and white.

She approached Elina's bedroom door and knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door slowly and stepped in, taking a few steps forward as her eyes glanced around the room. The bed was made, its white chenille bedspread unwrinkled and tucked underneath her pillow. Her white vanity-styled dresser had the usual on it; a record player, a couple of albums by the Carpenters and Fleetwood Mac, and a stuffed teddy bear she had since she was a young child. Her closet was open, and some clothes, possibly Elina's pajamas, had been tossed on the floor along with clean garments taken off their hangers.

Where could she be, Britta thought. She made her way out of the room and down the stairs.