In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier

although I can’t make any promises.”
    Denny was glad when a customer came in and he was able to make his getaway.
    At home, the telephone rang as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He drank the juice slowly, listening to the rings. Counted them as usual. If it goes beyond ten, I’ll answer it, he thought. He walked toward the telephone, counting: eight, nine. As he reached to pick it up, the ringing stopped. He picked it up anyway and heard the dial tone, feeling a pang of loss although he couldn’t imagine over what.
    The next afternoon, as he sat at his desk pondering a math problem that had no importance in his life except for a mark on his report card, he heard someone knocking at the kitchen door. Sharp, insistent raps. Then silence. He waited, pen poised over the page. The knocking resumed. Dropping the pen, he made his way to the kitchen.
    Knock knock, who’s there?
    He and his parents had had no visitors since moving to Barstow. Nobody from UPS had delivered a package. Mail was left in the standard metal box on the first-floor porch.
    More knocks. One, two, three, four.
    I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.
    A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. Denny strained to listen. Heard the voice say: “It’s important. Please open up.”
    A man’s voice. Not a woman’s. Definitely not a woman. Not the telephone caller. He stood uncertainly at the kitchen table. He did not want to open the door.
Who knows who might be standing there, only a few feet away?
    Cut the dramatics, he told himself. This is the middle of the afternoon and someone is merely knocking at the door. Could be a salesman. Or an emergency: a neighbor in desperate need of help. What had the knocker said? “
It’s important. Please open up
.”
    Denny opened the door. Just a crack. Peered suspiciously through the narrow opening. Saw a middle-aged man, horn-rimmed glasses, gray hair, jacket pocket jammed with pens and pencils. Knew instantly who this was: a reporter. Remembered his father’s command:
If approached, tell them nothing. Never say yes. Always say no. Or don’t know.
    “Is Mr. Colbert at home?” the reporter asked.
    Denny shook his head, began to close the door.
    “Wait … Do you know when he’s expected?”
    The reporter’s air of urgency stopped Denny’s hand. More than that: this reporter seemed like a nice guy. Looked tired. His eyes bloodshot, as if he had not slept the night before. Denny knew that look, had seen it on his father’s face.
    “I don’t know,” Denny said. A stupid answer. Of course he knew when his father would come home.
After work.
Stupid question, too. The reporter should know that his father worked at Madison Plastics and would not be found at home in the middle of the afternoon.
    “Actually, I wanted to talk to
you
,” the reporter said. “You’re Dennis Colbert, aren’t you? I’m from the
Wickburg Telegram
.”
    “I’m sorry,” Denny said. “I’m busy.”
    And began to close the door again.
    “Wait a minute,” the reporter said. “I want to help. I want to help you, and your father.”
    “We don’t need your help,” Denny said, his reply fueled by the memory of that blazing headline and story in the
Telegram
years ago. Maybe this reporter had written that story, that headline.
    “I think you do,” the reporter said. But speaking kindly, not threatening. And also speaking wearily, sighing. “Would you please listen to me for a minute?”
    Denny’s impulse to close the door was overwhelmed by curiosity. Maybe the reporter could tell him things his father had never revealed to him. Maybe he could help, after all.
    “In a week or two, there’re going to be big stories about the Globe tragedy,” the reporter said. “Your father’s an important part of that story. My paper’s the biggest in Worcester County, Dennis. And my editor wants to pull out all the stops. He assigned me to head the team working on the story. Interviewing