"Is my father all right?" Wes asked the visitor to his home, worry in his eyes.
The visitor was a tall, powerfully built man with corded muscles. Someone with a body like that ought to have been full of energy, yet his face was pale as paper, and cold sweat beaded at his temples. He looked like a patient who had not recovered from a serious illness.
Wes had not noticed how awful the man looked when he opened the door. Only now, in the room's soft light, could he see it clearly.
He had already been worried about his father, who had not returned for days. At the sight of this, he hurriedly changed tack. "Uncle Darkman, are you all right?"
The big man was Darkman. Seeing Wes look at him with such concern, he smiled gently. "I'm fine."
"Are you... sure?" Wes did not believe him. How could anyone with a face that pale be fine?
Darkman bent his arm and flexed his bicep. "Do I look like something's wrong?"
Wes fell silent.
After a moment, he said gloomily, "If you're fine, Uncle Darkman, does that mean something happened to my father?"
Darkman froze. "What nonsense are you talking about, kid?"
Wes sighed, looking mournful. "It's not nonsense. I can read, and I've read lots of novels at the library. When one of the protagonist's father's old comrades comes to see him with a troubled look, he usually isn't bringing good news."
"They're like birds of ill omen, announcing the father's death and telling the protagonist to be strong."
"Just tell me, Uncle Darkman. I... I've prepared myself."
By the end, Wes had squeezed his eyes shut. His lashes trembled, and moisture seemed to gather at their corners.
But instead of an answer, Wes got Darkman's fist.
Thump!