He wakes with a start, surprised to find he’s
fallen asleep on the sofa. The half-empty carton once full of ice
cream now leaks a brown, soupy mess into his lap. Quickly he sits
up, sets the ice cream aside, and starts to brush ineffectively at
the damp spots staining the front of his jeans. With detached
amusement, he realizes it looks like he’s come in his sleep.
There’s a hollow ache deep in his groin, sympathy pains, a
lingering Ghost from Christmas Past that tugs at his balls and
almost makes him wish he’d let Jake visit. At least then he
wouldn’t be dozing in front of the TV…
But the television is off, and the clock on
the VCR blinks 12:00 with a stupid stutter. Now Ned notices the
wind outside—what he’d thought was a dream is real, shrieking
around the edges of the house like a banshee seeking entry. He
takes the melting ice cream into the kitchen and leaves it in the
sink as he peers out the window. The still night is filled with a