With my luck, today probably would have been the twentieth anniversary of the last time I wet the bed. I mean, I can't prove it or anything. Nobody keeps that sort of thing on file. Nobody I know at least. But still. there I was, wet and groggy and ashamed. The shame is really the shittiest part, you know. Sheets can be washed and mattresses can be flipped, but even when you live alone and nobody could possibly know about it, your piss-stained ego won't let you live it down for a while. Incidentally, I didn't have much time to dwell on it.

When you first wake up every morning, you might notice your brain turning certain functions on one at a time. Maybe you notice you're thirsty a few moments before -click!- you realize your morning dump is gonna be ahead of schedule. Maybe your arms are awake enough to hit snooze a million times before -click!- the "You're gonna get fired if you're late again" lobe warms up. Everyone's a little different.

The point I'm trying to make is that you can't call me stupid for worrying about my soaked bed for just a couple minutes before I noticed my grandparents sitting on the couch at the other end of my shithole studio apartment. I must have left my door unlocked. What the hell are they doing here?

"What are you guys doing here?" I asked in that 'Of course I was already awake!' voice you use when anyone over 40 catches you sleeping past noon.

Grandpa poked his nose over the comics section of his newspaper and chuckled, "Oh, we were in the area. Just thought to drop by. Hope you don't mind!"

"We put a pot of coffee on," said Grandma, mulling over the crossword puzzle she no doubt stole from Grandpa's paper, "Should still be good. You might wanna nuke it."

I ducked into the bathroom to put on dry clothes. Thankfully they didn't seem to notice my damp situation. Back outside, I poured myself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and tossed it straight into the microwave. Cold coffee tastes like nightmares. They've been here a while, I guess.

It was right around then that another part of my brain decided to click on: I hadn't seen my grandparents since Grandpa sold his company and they moved to Barbados. Hell of a time for a surprise visit. Maybe somebody died.

"So what have you kids been up to?" I asked.

"Living the dream, champ," Grandpa smiled.

"It is just marvelous in paradise, Alex," followed Grandma.

"Well you'll have to buy me a ticket to come visit sometime."

I sipped my now-acceptable coffee and sat on my bed as far from the wet patch as I could manage. An empty prescription bottle stared up at me from my bedside table. Well damn. Looks like I'll need to hit up the pharmacy before work.

Oh shit. Work. I'll have to-

Grandpa's trademark combination of belly laughter and smoker's coughing interrupted my thought. He leaned over and showed the newspaper to Grandma.

"I swear, Alex," Grandma scoffed, "Your grandfather must be selling stories about you to whoever writes these silly Calvin and Hobbes strips."

"I can't get enough of 'em!" added Grandpa, "They're the only reason I buy the paper anymore."

I laughed. Unexpected visit or not, I missed the hell out of those two. They had the casual back-and-forth wit of grandparents you'd see in sitcoms or someth-

Click.

Calvin and Hobbes hasn't been in the paper for years.

It all started making sense. They've got to be going senile by now, right? Maybe a little? I mean they've got to be at least eighty or ninety years old.

Click.

They don't look nearly that old. Maybe sixty? Sixty-five? That Barbados air must work wonders-

Click. Click.

I glanced back at the empty bottle of muscle relaxers on my nightstand.

Click.

I sat in shock for a moment after everything in my head came together for the first time of the day. Roger and Myrtle McGowan never made it to Barbados.