Cash Out by Greg Bardsley

family—for Internet riches.
    I used to be like Rod, so sure about things. But the older I get, the less sure I’m of anything.
    There was a time I looked down on the corporate jobs. But then we brought Harry home from the hospital. I’d stare at him for hours at a time, and my perspective changed. Providing for your family is noble, period. It has universal value, and it gives meaning to life. Right?
    Not to Rod, I guess. In one sense, that annoyed the hell out of me. But then again I loved the fact he was so resistant, such a purist. Hell, Rod wouldn’t be Rod if he didn’t scream into the deafening roar of Silicon Valley, if he didn’t stand before it and throw his hips out and heave his middle fingers into the air. And of course, I’d love to join him, cashing out and giving this life the finger.
    T he house is silent as I begin to nod off in the rocking chair.
    Then a gurgling noise. The sound of thick liquid. Choking.
    A weak, muffled “Daddy.”
    I shake my head, my temples throbbing.
    More choking. Splatter on the floor. A gasp. “Daddy.”
    Ben is sitting on the edge of his little bed, something dripping off his chin. I bolt over and scoop him up.
    He cries, “Daddy.” Holds me tight. Little hands gripping my shoulders.
    I smell vomit, and I’m relieved. It’s not blood.
    â€œDaddy,” he moans, and vomits again. It runs down my neck and back.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I whisper, and stroke his head. His forehead is a little warm—mild fever. “Daddy’s here now.”
    I move us to the hallway, where I can get some towels. He vomits again, down my back and onto the floor. Rod comes around the corner, see us, and grabs some towels from the linen closet.
    I turn on the faucet, splash cool water into Ben’s mouth to get the taste out.
    Afterward, he rests his head on my shoulder. “Daddy,” he mumbles, and squeezes me. A lump forms in my throat, my chest expands in warmth.
    Rod is in the hallway, oblivious to the sour odor. He wipes Ben’s mouth with one towel, drops the other near my feet, and spreads it out with a naked foot. “Let me have him,” he whispers.
    I give him a look.
    â€œI’ll take care of him,” Rod says. “I want you to go out front and tell me if you recognize the guy I found in your garage.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI tied him up,” Rod whispers. “I’ll stay here, near Kate and the boys.”
    I give him my what-the-fuck? look.
    I switch Ben over to Rod, and they hug.
    Rod nods toward the front of the house. “Go see.”
    T he kitchen door opens to the garage. I open it, poke my head in—and see the nasty end of my garden shovel coming straight at my face.
    I fall to my knees, kind of slow. I can’t feel my nose, mouth or forehead—it’s all morphed into a thick mask of pain. I look up, see the shovel coming again. I duck.
    The shovel sinks into the door frame.
    I look up. A man in his forties is backing up into the garage. I don’t know this guy. Some of my rope is still wrapped around his right arm, my duct tape trailing his ankles. Rod may know how to fight, but apparently he knows jack about tying people up.
    The man is wearing dark blue sweats and a gray sweatshirt. He looks athletic, and horrified.
    No way this asshole’s getting through me. I lunge for him, knock him down.
    Rod’s voice echoes from the other side of the house. “Danny?”
    The man screams at the sound of Rod’s voice, stumbles up, and slaps the garage door button on the wall. The garage door starts to jerk open, and he bolts toward it.
    I struggle to my feet, slap the button. The door halts. I slap it again and it starts to jerk closed. “You’re not going—”
    He slides under the garage door, inches to spare.
    Feeling a bit dizzy, I find myself falling to one knee. Can’t let this guy . . .
    Rod hollers, “Danny,