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Mr Enders had lived a semi-satisfied life with a charmingly aloof wife and twin daughters until the gnawing desire to liberate his brain from his cranium overcame him. He felt trapped in his body, worse yet, trapped in his head, his two eye sockets providing only a glimpse of relief from the pressure in his skull. He took to sleeping in odd places, moving his bed from room to room until he finally went to the back yard and fell asleep sadly gazing at the shifting stars. 

This was the beginning of the end for Mr Enders, but the end of the beginning for the twins. The four year-olds’ mother was tragically lost in a ball pit and somewhere downtown a hand scrawled in Mr Enders’ file, “single father, undiagnosed mental illness.” Victoria and Laney weren’t talking much before their mother’s disappearance, and this did not improve their condition.

Mr Enders mourned the loss of his analog daughters as their speech became ones and zeroes to his throbbing ears. The pressure in his cranium built until three cars came: one for dear dad, one for each of the girls. Several throats on site were sore from holding back tears as Laney’s voice came muffled from one of the cars, “Vicky, Vicky, Vicky…”

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