It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,16

on babying her upset her. When would he get that?

And he remembered what Bertie—one of the few people Nonnie considered a true friend—had said to him not all that long ago. Quality of life was better than quantity. If he wanted Nonnie around forever, he could try to baby her. Try to prevent anything bad from happening to her. But if he wanted her happy for the time she had left on earth, he had to let her fend for herself for as long as she possibly could.

And if he lost her during one of her attempts to care for them?

Turning the truck toward town—the center of town where Montford University stood as the town’s foundation—Mark sang along under his breath to the country music station on the radio. Out of a pristine blue sky the sun was shining down on the mountains that housed Shelter Valley, and his voice rose with the swell of the music in an attempt to drown out the thoughts in his head.

Someday the trick might actually work.

* * *

ON SUNDAY, THE NIGHT before the start of the fall semester, and only a week after he’d arrived in Shelter Valley, Mark sat alone in the kitchen of the duplex, country music playing softly in the background as he bent over the DVD player, in pieces, spread out over the table. According to Hank Harmon, the owner of Harmon Hardware and Electronics, the DVD player’s owner couldn’t get the thing to play and was ready to replace it. Hank wanted Mark to see if he could find what was broken and fix it for less than the replacement cost. Because Hank didn’t just spout customer service—he insisted on providing it.

As it turned out, all the player needed was a good cleaning. Something had gummed up the gears.

From what Mark had gleaned in the couple of days he’d been working for Hank, the older man had been in the hardware business his whole life. And his father before him, too. They’d just branched out into electronics in the past couple of years.

With technology changing so rapidly, Mark figured that as far as business decisions went, the choice was a sound one. Only problem was, Hank knew hammers and nails. Not technology.

Mark, on the other hand, was fascinated by every new toy that came out on the market, and had been the guy in Bierly that everyone called when they ran into a technological glitch. He didn’t have an iPad yet, but he wanted one. He just couldn’t justify the expense for what, for his purposes, would only be a toy.

With precision care, he gingerly picked up and, with a special cloth and solution, gently cleaned the metal pieces spread before him. Over the years he’d amassed an impressive collection of tools, from eyeglass-size screwdrivers to an air compressor that pretty much every citizen in Bierly had borrowed at one time or another.

He’d packed his collection of manly necessities in the bed of the truck. As long as he had his tools, he’d be able to provide.

With pressure from the tip of his finger, he picked up a screw from the table, set it to the tip of the miniature screwdriver and proceeded to attach part of the tangential deflector assembly, freezing midturn as he heard something.

Background on the Linda Davis tune playing from his MP3 player?

The sound was human.

And, he was pretty sure, female.

He didn’t move, listening for a repeat—hopefully in rhythm with the sound track.

It came again. Louder. More hoarse. Dropping the fragile component and screwdriver in a pile on the table, Mark ran down the hall to his grandmother’s room. Throwing open the door, he was at her bedside before he’d taken a full breath.

Nonnie lay still. Silent.

And while he watched, she took several long, even breaths. Normal breaths.

Relieved, he backed quietly out of the room, revisiting his sound track theory for explanation of whatever he’d thought he’d heard, until the sound came again.

Louder still. Human? Or animal? Maybe coming from the living room?

“Ahhhh. Ahhhh!”

Animalistic. Growing in intensity. An expression of severe pain. Looking out the front window he peered into the darkness. Had a cat been run over by a car? Or been attacked by an owl?

From what he’d heard at the plant during his first shift of work the day before, wildlife in Shelter Valley was nothing like the nonhuman inhabitants he’d grown up with in West Virginia. Cats and dogs weren’t safe roaming the streets in the desert. The food chain was