Still, I really think the Cubs are going to do it this year.

The monster stops screaming when I cut into its lungs. The silence is golden. Heavy footfalls creak through the ceiling above, and sawdust sifts through the slats of wood in the basement ceiling. Light floods down the steps filling the basement as the door opens above.

Dejected and morose, the baseball announcer's voice proclaims, "Oh, no! It really looked like the Cubs were going to win this time."

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Billy."

I look at the top of the stairs and see two silhouettes in the doorway. A woman stands next to Billy, her hand resting on his shoulder.

"Mom's home."

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