THE SUBWAY COLLECTION-A Box Set of 8 Dark Stories to Read on the Go Read Online Free Page A

bed. I looked in the closet and her clothes were gone. I don't care. In fact, I'm relieved. If reality is slipping again, I hope she's not in it.
                  I got dressed for work feeling hungover. I have been imbibing too much. It's beginning to tell on me. That is the least of my worries.
                  Downstairs I look in the hall at the cabinet and it's not there. I sigh and sit down wearily on the bottom stair step. In place of the cabinet is an old chest, rectangular, with brass hinges. I don't want to look in it.
                  Instead, I make coffee, fill my travel mug and go outside to start the truck. It's almost Christmas and there's snow on the ground.
                  In the driveway is a maroon Chevy Suburban. I feel in my pants pocket and withdraw a key with an electronic lock-unlock beeper on the chain with it.
                  That's okay, I tell myself, thank you, world. The truck was old. I was hoping to get to trade it in anyway. The Suburban is a luxury boat and I enjoy it as I drive to work. When I enter the garage, Barney, the tire man, says to me, "Hey, Lane, the boss is always late, eh? We got it covered, though, you betcha. No ass wipe is slacking around here."
                  I stand still trying to think. Trying to make it all straight and logical, trying to make sense of it happening again. I am not a mechanic. I am the boss of the place. I either own it or I manage it. Will these changes go on forever? Am I the only one slipping between realities or does Barney do it, does Millie do it, do we all do it?
                  At lunch I eat at Big Boy Steaks. The burgers aren't half as good as Partners served, and they cost twice as much. After lunch, in my office filling out unfamiliar work forms, Millie comes by and says, "What are you going to do about being late with the child support?"
                  I look at her bug-eyed. "Well?" She has her hands on her hips. I don't know why I ever thought she was pretty.
                  "I'll...I'll handle it." Saying anything else is going to prolong this argument and disorient me to the point I'll just start gibbering and drooling.
                  "You better handle it, or your ass is mine, Mister. Do you think Davey and me can live on air?"
                  "Davey?" I felt a pain in my chest. I might be having a heart attack. Or the anxiety is so great it's going to give me one.
                  "Your son? You never paid him a minute's attention when we were married, what do I expect, right? Get that check to me by 5pm. Or you'll be sorry." Her high heels were expensive and her hair was long, shiny, and expertly cut. She gave me one last hard stare and left the office.
                  I put my head down on the desk and wondered what I was going to do. Davey, my brother--who I had failed to rescue from death's clutches twice--was now Davey, my son. And I knew beyond any doubt it was going to be the same person, but younger. Maybe the Davey I played ball with, the Davey whose hair always fell over his eyes, the boy younger than me who I had to keep an eye on so he wouldn't get hurt, or fail his math test, or...go off to war.
                  Before I saw him I had to find out what was in the chest in the hallway at home.
                  Maybe there was something in it this time that would save a life instead of take it. But if I had to bet on it...I guess I wouldn't give it good odds. Because whatever is happening, either to the whole world or just to me, doesn't seem to relinquish the dead to the living for very long.
                  It only gives out a miserly loan that has to be paid in full, with interest. I don't know that for sure. I don't know anything from one day to the next for sure . But all evidence points to the fact that these new mixed up, jumbled lives