I arrived home much later than I had anticipated, due to the fact of partying with not only James, but Max as well. Ok, talking with James and watching Max get drunk, but that's not the point. The point is that I was out late.

Yet, when I entered the dimly lit apartment, Mom was still sitting at the table, staring off into the distance. As she looked up to make eye contact with me, I noticed the coffee mug in her hands.

"Good. You're home," she told me, rising to her feet; her face blotchy in the pale, creeping moonlight that trickled in through the window.

"You don't have to wait up for me. I can take care of myself."

"Well, I did anyhow." There was a long pause as she put the dirty coffee mug in the sink and began to rinse it out in an almost methodical pattern. "Original Cindy's back, so try to be quiet when you go to bed," Mom said. Then, she walked slowly to her room, having put the mug away in the cupboard, dressed in her flannel pajamas.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's Dad?" I asked her.

She stopped in the open doorway, leading into her bedroom, as she let her pale hand clasp the doorframe. "Zack's up," was all she said before retreating into the shadows of the room.

I knew what "up" meant. Dad was up on the rooftop, looking down on the city. He'd go into these moods, (usually after a fight), pretending that he really didn't care, when we all knew that he did.

Slowly, I moved away and out into the hallway. I crept out into the hallway, ready to climb the shivering stairs. I had given up praying for the stairs to hold me some time ago. If they were going to collapse, no amount of praying would stop them.

After climbing up the stairs quietly, so as to not wake any neighbors, I arrived on the rooftop. The air was colder than I remembered it being when I dropped Max off. But, as expected, Dad was the only one up there.

He was leaning on the thick cement barrier around the edge of the roof, casually sipping beer while staring out at the brightly-lit city below. Shivering from the chilly air, I strolled up to him, resting my elbows on the freezing cold cement wall.

Dad looked up as I settled down beside him and held out the caramel colored bottle towards me.

"Want some?" he asked.

"I'm too young to drink."

"You do anyhow," he replied and set the bottle down in between us.

Neither one of us would ever mention the fight-not if we could help it anyhow.

Dad sighed beside me, creating puffs of steam around his mouth. I noticed for the first time since he had arrived that he was attempting the look of facial hair. Interesting.

"What do you wish for?" he asked me suddenly, his voice hollow and far away.

"Huh?"

"What do you wish for?" he repeated.

I sighed, unsure of what to say. There were a million things I wished for, but knew I would never get. Being a normal human, having normal parents, that the world was a better place, that the pulse had never happened…the list was endless. "I don't know," I admitted.

He turned to look at me from his crouched height below my full, erect height. His eyes were glazed over, like he had had too much to drink, but they still portrayed that proud look of his. Cocking an eyebrow, he smiled faintly, then slowly turned back to the panoramic view below.

"I was in Phoenix a couple weeks ago," he began and took a sip from the bottle. "While I was there, I heard about this really bad car crash. I mean, really bad. Apparently, some guy had gotten over in the wrong lane and hit somebody else head-on, causing them both to spin into a nearby ditch full of water-"

"What does this have to do with a wish?" I asked him.

"I'm getting to that.

"Anyhow, I was in the area at the time, only about a half a mile from where it happened. So, I went over to investigate, just for the hell of it-y'know? Both of the people were dead from head injuries. One of them was a girl, not far off from your age. And the other? I didn't get his whole name, but later found out that it was an old guy with the name D. Lydecker."

I froze, not sure of what to say. My mouth suddenly felt very dry and pasty, like someone had swabbed it out with a cloth. I swallowed before asking, "And your wish?"

"I know it's cruel, but sometimes I wish I could've been the one to kill the bastard," he replied with a hoarse laugh as he took another swig of the beer.

I said nothing, for there was nothing I could say, except wonder what Lydecker had done to my parents to make them hate him so badly.