I hadn’t slept in a month, but I kept with the routine anyway. Get up. Work. Wine. Bed. It was the best I could do to take care of my wife and six-year-old son, a survival game that kept a roof over our heads and plenty of takeout bags on the table. Though at night, while the others slept, I often heard the voice of my dead father. “Nicholas!” he would scream again and again, as if I had just broken the neighbor’s window with my baseball or washed his old Camry with sandpaper. He wouldn’t say anything else though, just my name. He was the only one who ever used my full name; it meant I was in trouble. One night, I saw a giant, flesh-colored spider crawling down the wall beside my bed towards me. I shone a light on it, and it vanished. But that was just the one time.