POV: Tyler
The dice float again—rising like they did for Kayla.
Tyler’s stomach flips. Last time, they rolled for her. Sent a card flying. Now the board glows red again.
And this time, it says HEATHER.
Tyler stares, heart climbing up his throat.
He doesn’t wait for them to land.
The board already chose.
And it chose his mom.
He’s already moving.
“Dad—” he blurts, bolting down the hall, socked feet skidding slightly on the wood. “Dad! The board—it just rolled! It moved by itself again!”
The hallway feels colder than before. Quieter. Dim.
He rounds the corner—
And stops short.
His dad isn’t standing.
He’s sitting, back slumped against the wall beside the bathroom door. One knee up, the other dropped lazily outward. Hands loose. Shoulders sagging like something knocked the strength out of him.
But it’s the look on his face that catches Tyler.
Dazed. Downward. Fixed on the front of his own pants.
And just for a second, Tyler sees it.
A dark stain—centered low, spreading outward from the zipper seam. Damp. Too fresh to ignore. Not big, but clear. Spread slightly across the seam, the fabric darkened, clinging.
“Dad?” Tyler says again, slower now. “Are you—?”
Rick flinches. His hand moves fast, tugging the bottom of his shirt down to cover the stain. He pulls in a breath like he hadn’t meant to speak—then exhales, eyes finally lifting to meet Tyler’s.
“You said it rolled? Who for?”
“Mom,” Tyler says.
“It floated again. Picked Kayla a minute ago—sent a card and everything. Now it’s Mom.”
Rick swears under his breath. A whisper. Not at Tyler—at the board.
“Shit. It’s not waiting for us anymore,” he mutters. “It’s playing itself.”
He shifts slightly against the wall, grimacing—like the movement costs him something. But his voice steadies. More controlled now. Barely.
“Go,” he says, voice low but steady now. “Keep eyes on it. Tell me where it puts her. I need a second to… pull myself together.”
Tyler hesitates. “Are you sure—”
“Yeah. I just…” Rick closes his eyes for half a second. “Just need a second.”
There’s something in his tone. Not weak. But not okay either.
Tyler nods slowly.
He backs away. Glances once more before turning the corner—just in time to see his dad adjust how he’s sitting, like he’s trying to breathe through a cramp or a bruise that hasn’t healed yet.
The board is still glowing when Tyler re-enters—brighter now, like it’s breathing deeper.
The red piece marked HEATHER drifts forward on its own.
One. Two. Three…
It lands.
And the glow fades.