Damn, it's cold.

A deep chill seeped deep into his bones, and he wished he had something thicker than the thin cotton sheet he had over his body. What on earth was going on? One minute it was hot as hell and the next, it was cold. Freezing, even.

Maybe he was still dreaming, he thought, but that didn't account for the freezing air... and small hands touching his face. The last thing he remembered before nodding off to sleep as jet lag hit him was saying goodnight to Junior. It was for show, of course, but he kissed the boy on the forehead and told him to be a good boy and listen to his Tita Alma because she'd be in charge of him from now on. Then Seymour had gone into his room to watch some porn on his phone before drifting off to sleep.

He heard a grunt. 

Junior?

Seymour sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking as he tried to focus in the semi-darkness. He tapped his phone display. 3:30 A.M. It meant that it was about 5:30 P.M., Pacific Standard Time the day before. His time, or at least, his normal time if he weren't in fucking Philippines.

He also had a few messages from Doheny. Not just a few—there were five of them. What did the lawyer want now? It had been a two months since he was acquitted—a year since he got charged with murder—and he hadn't heard from his lawyer since, except to settle some expenses. At least, he got to collect some insurance money which was a consolation although Mina had been smart enough to give the bulk of it to Junior. And to add insult to injury, she didn't name him as the custodian even though he could easily fight it, but her cousin, Alma.

Junior grunted, tugging on Seymour's shirt. Seymour ignored him. He tapped on the first text message from Doheny.

Where are you? They found a body off Highway 71. A woman they think is your wife.  Please tell me you didn't do it.

The next one read, On second thought, don't tell me.

The third one:  You're a fugitive now.

Outside the window, the moon was partly hidden in the thick clouds. Still, it gave him enough light to see that Junior was wearing his Captain America PJs.

"What's up, kid? You should be asleep."

Junior grunted, then pointed to the door where a woman was silhouetted by the dim light of the hallway. Seymour squinted. "That's your Tita Alma. Why don't you go with her, and let your Dad get some sleep?"

"Mama," the boy whispered, still pointing at Alma. 

Seymour grabbed his glasses and put them on. His kid must be playing tricks on him. Mama was long dead. "What did you say?"

"Mama." Then Junior was off, running towards the woman standing by the door. Only she was no longer there. No one was there.

Seymour leaped out of bed, his heart hammering inside his chest as Junior ran towards the stairs, turned and disappeared around the corner. But there had been someone there. It was Alma! He was sure of it. And it certainly hadn't been Mina, not when she was buried far from a hiking trail off 71.

Seymour cursed out loud, stubbing his toe as he under the bed with his feet for his rubber slippers. Then he heard the front door open and close, Junior crying out Mama, Mama in the darkness outside. Shit! Forget the damn slippers, man! Get your kid!

Barefoot, Seymour ran down the stairs, wondering where the hell everyone was for the house was deathly quiet. With all the money he and Mina sent home, the family had been able to build a big house that just about accommodated everyone in the family, all twenty of them from the cousins to the cousins' cousins. It was crazy. There should be two or three people asleep in the living room, the servants sleeping comfortably on their floor mats. But the living room was empty, the doors to the bedrooms shut.

They were probably all asleep then, he thought, while he and Junior were simply going through the effects of jet lag. Or maybe this was a dream. Whatever. Dream or no dream, he still needed to go after his son.

The front door was ajar by the time Seymour made it downstairs, but he kept running, the faint outline of his son visible in the distance. How'd Junior manage to move fast like that? But of course, kids were always fast, and Seymour knew he wasn't getting any younger. He stumbled once, tripping over an exposed root but he got up and kept running. For Junior was still going like a rocket, and straight ahead, someone—or something—was leading him.

"Jun! Come back!"

A dog howled in the distance. A bird flapped its wings nearby, the cool damp air caressing Seymour's cheek like a kiss. A light fog drifted above the ground, just up to his knees as he kept running, ignoring the gravel cutting into the bottoms of his feet.

"Mama!" His son cried out again, his voice growing faint.

"Jun! Stop where you are!" Seymour shouted again, but he knew it was useless. This had to be a dream. Had to be.

Around him the fog lifted, reaching above his head before it dissipated, settling like a whisper against his bare skin. He realized then that he was only wearing a thin shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. Shit. No one better see him like this, running half-naked out in the middle of nowhere. He was Seymour Parks, for crying out loud. Women couldn't get enough of him, and men loved to hang out with him. It didn't matter if they did it only because of the money. At least, they did it for something.

He stopped when he spotted the gate leading to the cemetery, and beyond it, Junior. Seymour took a deep breath and pushed the gate forward.

"Jun, you're in deep trouble, kid. Don't you ever run like that, alright?"

The fog swirled around him, swallowing up the boy's small form but Seymour was determined to make it to him. He stopped only when something tugged at his boxers. Seymour looked down.

"There you are," he muttered as Junior stood next to him, the boy pointing at something in front of them. This time, Seymour felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His skin prickled. Wait! Where the hell were they? He followed the little boy's finger, pointing at something about his same height.

Ah, shit.

"Mama," Junior said, pointing to the marble grave marker.

Seymour frowned, before glancing down. "Jun, you're talking."