Toby parked next to it, got out of the car, and waited, calling Owen's name every few moments.

Lots of sirens in the background.

He didn't even see where Owen came from. He just looked over and Owen was there, staring longingly at the ice-cream cone.

Owen signed: Ice cream. Ice cream.

"Yeah, ice cream. I'd buy you some if they were open."

Bad.

"Very bad. Both of us. Neither one of us deserves ice cream tonight, buddy."

Toby pointed the gun at him. Owen didn't move.

Maybe it didn't have to be this way. He could coax Owen into his car, and just drive away. Get as far out of this town as they possibly could. Nobody would be watching for an old man with a monster in his car, right?

They could start over. It was a huge forest. And there were other forests.

No.

It was time to end this. He couldn't undo his mistakes, but he could stop more innocent people from dying.

And the sirens were too close. In fact, Toby could already see the flashing lights.

He'd be seen as a hero, briefly. A few minutes of being the old guy who killed the monster, before the truth came out, and he became the scary old man with the carnivorous pet.

That's how the story would always be told: Owen was his pet. Nobody would ever believe that Owen was his best friend.

Toby wasn't sure how many bullets he had left. He walked closer. He couldn't miss this time, and he felt that he should look his friend in the eye when he pulled the trigger.

Voices behind him. Commotion.

Owen didn't run as Toby walked right up to him, close enough to give him a hug.

What did you say to a lifetime friend?

He settled for "I'm sorry, Owen," and then shot him.

Chaos behind him. A voice shouting for him to get away from the creature.

Toby glanced back. Three cops, all pointing their guns in his direction. Owen hadn't fallen yet.

He wanted to tell them to go away, that it was already done, that the monster was dying, but his body was wracked with sobs and he couldn't speak.

Owen didn't have an expression of pain, or betrayal, or sadness. He looked...concerned.

He thinks they're going to shoot me!

As blood gushed from his chest, Owen pushed past Toby, trying to get in front of him.

The police fired. Two more bullets slammed into Owen's chest.

Toby found his voice and screamed for them to stop. That's not how his friend was supposed to die. Not shot by a bunch of strangers.

He pushed himself back between his monster friend and the panicked cops, and felt surprisingly little pain as the bullets hit.

CHAPTER T THIRTY-FIVE G GLIMPSES.

Toby lay on the ground, bleeding and dying.

It could have been so much different...

"I'll take you right to where I saw him!" Toby told Dad, before he could begin the spanking. "I'll prove it!"

Though Dad was skeptical, Toby led him right to the place where he'd seen the monster. Though the monster wasn't there anymore, there were clear tracks in the dirt. Dad couldn't deny that something had been out here, just like Toby said.

"Don't tell anybody about this until we have solid proof," Dad said, "but I'm sorry I doubted you."

Years of searching had paid off. "Can we name it Owen?" Toby asked.

"We can name it anything you want," Dad said. "You're the one who found it."

"Don't go near Toby Floren," Larry told the other kids at school. "I hear he's got a monster friend who lives out in the woods, and if you mess with him, the monster will be furious. furious."

Finally, the time was right. You didn't want to rush these things. Mom and Dad watched proudly as Toby introduced Owen to the world.

"Toby," Owen said to an astonished and delighted crowd, as hundreds of camera flashes went off.

Toby and Owen, man and monster, best of friends and one of the most popular television and movie acts in the world. How could the fictional likes of Frankenstein, Dracula, and even aliens from Mars compete with a reallife monster?

"I've never met a real celebrity," said Sarah.

"Are you talking about me or him?" asked Toby, jokingly pointing to Owen.

Just when you thought they were old news, Toby and Owen shocked the world yet again. Toby and Sarah announced the birth of their son, Garrett, while Owen and Esmerelda announced the birth of their own son, Scruffer.

"Well, you see," Toby told the talk-show host, "I've always felt that a boy should remain close to his mother and father."

"Does it count as living with your parents if it's in a fifty-room mansion?" the host asked. The audience laughed.

"Yes, both Owen and I will be retiring. We're still young, but it's time to enjoy life. Garrett, Hannah, and Scruffer will continue performing, but expect lots of exciting changes to their act for the twenty-first century."

"So, Owen, aren't you glad I rescued you from that miserable cave?"

Yes.

"Who would've ever thought this could happen to a couple of ugly guys like us?"

Not me.

"Not me, either. Not in a million years."

Time goes so fast.

"Nah. We've got all the time in the world."

God, there was a lot of blood.

The cops stood over him, looking horrified at what they'd done. Toby wondered if they'd try to lie about it, say that he'd rushed at them with his gun. Did you see that psychopath Did you see that psychopath? He came right at us He came right at us! You saw it, didn't you You saw it, didn't you? We all saw it. We all saw it.

It didn't matter.

Owen lay next to him, making no sound. It was probably a matter of seconds as to who would die first.

We should race, Toby thought. Make a game out of it. Make a game out of it.

Or maybe not. Maybe there were more games to come.

Toby could barely feel anything. Before he completely lost sensation in his arm, he twisted his body, flopping his arm over and putting his hand into Owen's claw.

Owen's claw tightened around his fingers. Toby closed his eyes and they began their next adventure together.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

First of all, monster-sized thanks to Michael McBride, who was subjected to this thing chapter-by-chapter as it was written. Thanks are also due to my volunteer testreaders Tod Clark, Adrienne Jones, Rhonda Wilson, Joe Konrath, Jonathan Piccinini, and Elizabeth Snead White for their typo-hunting and feedback. And I need to fling additional thanks in the direction of Don D'Auria, Stephanie Rostan, Monika Verma, Norm Rubenstein, Joe Morey, Greg Lamberson, and my wife Janice.

There are about forty-eight tons' worth of other people who deserve to be thanked (I weighed them) for countless reasons, but then I'd forget somebody, and then that person would scream "Why was ______ thanked and not me?" and then they'd start a smear campaign that would create a lot of hurt feelings and eventually result in the tragedy of six or seven lost lives. So I'm taking the "complete wimp" route and ending these acknowledgments here. Can't be too safe.

CRITICS RAVE FOR JEFF STRAND AND PRESSURE PRESSURE!.

"In a visceral narrative voice spiced with beguiling wit, Strand shows readers that humans are capable of far worse things than any supernatural monster."

-Shroud Magazine