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    3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5)
    3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5)
    3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5)
    Ebook160 pages1 hour

    3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5)

    By Nick Pirog

    5/5

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    About this ebook

    HENRY BINS IS ONLY AWAKE FOR ONE HOUR A DAY.

    Saturday, February 27th.
    3:00 a.m. - 4:00 a.m.
    It's the wedding that everyone has been waiting for...
    What could possibly go wrong?

    Selected Praise for the 3 a.m. series

    "The most interesting premise....EVER." -Ruth.D

    "If I had to choose one series to take with me to that desert island in the middle of nowhere, this would be it." -MsRee

    "What an amazing series. So unique and interesting!" -Linda33

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNick Pirog
    Release dateFeb 27, 2016
    ISBN9781310862823
    3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5)
    Author

    Nick Pirog

    Nick Pirog is the bestselling author of the Thomas Prescott series, the 3:00 a.m. series, and The Speed of Souls. He lives in South Lake Tahoe with his two pups, Potter and Penny.

    Read more from Nick Pirog

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      Book preview

      3:46 a.m. (Henry Bins 5) - Nick Pirog

      3:46 A.M.

      NICK PIROG

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Cold Open Publishing

      Copyright © 2010 Nick Pirog

      All rights reserved

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

      Contents

      :01

      :02

      :03

      :04

      :05

      :06

      :07

      :08

      :09

      :10

      :11

      :12

      Author’s Note

      :01

      I push myself up in bed and glance at the clock on the dresser.

      3:01 a.m.

      Friday, February 26th.

      Twenty-six degrees.

      Mostly Cloudy.

      There is something off about the clock. It’s at an odd angle. And it’s much closer to the edge than usual.

      It takes me another second to realize why.

      Just behind the clock, with a tiny paw half-extended, is the newest addition to the Bins family.

      Archie.

      The orange and tan striped kitten peers at me with wide eyes, then extends his paw to the clock.

      Don’t do it! I shout.

      In the three short weeks since Archie came into our lives, he has broken three wine glasses, two picture frames, Ingrid’s favorite coffee mug, and one Samsung Galaxy S6.

      He glares at me for a couple seconds, then extends his paw.

      The clock teeters on the edge of the dresser.

      "Archie, don’t."

      Another glare.

      Another push.

      Seriously, Archie, don’t push it again.

      He pushes it again.

      It crashes to the floor.

      Dammit, Archie!

      I push myself out of bed and pick up the clock.

      The LCD screen is shattered.

      I replace the clock and pick the three-month-old kitten off the dresser. I can still hold him in one hand. He might have the same green eyes as his tabby mother, but the I-solemnly-swear-I’m-up-to-no-good twinkle certainly came from his father.

      I say, Dude, you have to stop breaking stuff.

      He gazes up at me. Eyes huge. Little pink nose wrinkling.

      That’s not gonna work on me.

      His little mouth opens and he licks my thumb.

      It’s so cute, my heart hurts a little.

      It’s all fun and games until you break another one of Ingrid’s mugs, I tell him. Then you’ll be living on the street, buddy.

      It’s a bluff. If Archie has me wrapped around his pinkie, then he has Ingrid wrapped around his whole paw. The first week we had him, nearly every one of my sixty minutes awake was spent looking at pictures and videos Ingrid took of him the previous day.

      Look at this one of him asleep on the couch.

      Look at this one of him playing with my keys.

      Look at this one of him peeing on the carpet.

      I spend the next minute wrestling on the floor with him, chasing him on all fours. He hides under the bed, and I drag him out and plop him on my chest. I tickle his little head, then stand up with him in the crook of my arm.

      All right, you little troublemaker, let’s go find your dad and point out his lack of parental control.

      We walk out of my childhood bedroom — and by childhood, I mean I lived there until I was twenty-seven — and make our way down the hall to my father’s room.

      My father isn’t there, and with him gone, Murdock — my father’s gigantic English mastiff — is sprawled across the bed diagonally, his one-hundred-and-sixty-pound frame taking up nearly half the mattress’s real estate. Lassie is curled up into Murdock’s belly. No doubt young Archibald had been snuggled into the mix before waking up and heading out on his seek-and-destroy mission.

      Hey, dingbats, I say.

      They both stir.

      Lassie stretches out his front legs, then slinks to the edge of the bed.

      Murdock sees Archie in my arms and whimpers.

      Okay, settle down. I set Archie on the bed, where he quickly scampers to Uncle Murdock.

      Murdock licks him a couple times with his enormous tongue, then curls Archie into his body protectively.

      Archie pushed my clock off the dresser, I tell Lassie.

      Meow.

      How many pushes? I don’t know, three.

      Meow.

      "He just needs more practice?"

      Meow.

      "I’m not mad because it took him three tries to push the clock off the dresser. I’m mad because he pushed the clock off the dresser."

      Meow.

      Because, you nitwit, the clock broke when it hit the floor.

      Meow.

      I have no idea how much it cost. My dad bought it for me ten years ago. It tells the temperature and the weather.

      Meow.

      "Brookstone? I don’t know, maybe."

      Meow.

      Yes, I will ask him.

      Meow.

      I am not going to go find him and ask him right now. I close my eyes and wave my hand at him. Listen, all I’m trying to say is that while you are sleeping, mini-dingbat over there is running amok. You need to discipline him.

      I don’t want to discipline him. I want to be cool Uncle Henry.

      Lassie looks at Archie, then back to me.

      Meow.

      Take away his PlayStation for a week? We don’t even own a PlayStation.

      Meow.

      You want to buy him a PlayStation so we can take it away from him? I shake my head. And this has nothing to do with the tantrum you threw on Christmas when Santa didn’t bring you a PS4?

      Meow.

      No, you weren’t good all year. Actually, you were awful.

      Meow.

      Uh, for one, you brought like five bunnies into my house, and God only knows what you did to them. Not to mention, you terrorized that little shih tzu down the hall to the point they filed a restraining order against us.

      Meow.

      Yes, I understand that when they named him Captain Pancake they were probably asking for it.

      Meow.

      "What else? You and Murdock and those stupid goats destroyed a man’s house, and you knocked up his tabby cat."

      He glares at Archie, then back at me. His whiskers twitch and I know what he’s thinking.

      I sigh. Yeah, I know, if you didn’t do all that stuff, then we wouldn’t have Archie.

      The thought is unbearable. The little kitten can break something every day for the rest of his life for all I care.

      I sit down on the bed, and Lassie and I join Murdock, and the three of us fawn over our little Archie.

      He bites at Murdock’s ear, then bats it around.

      It’s hilarious.

      A couple minutes later, I leave and head downstairs.

      It’s 3:08 a.m.

      I have a lot to do in fifty-two minutes.

      I’m getting married tomorrow.

      ::::

      I stop halfway down the stairs.

      What had yesterday been my father’s living room is now in the process of being transformed into a makeshift wedding chapel. All the furniture has been cleared out and a white arch is situated where a flat screen TV sat a day earlier. White wooden folding chairs are stacked and leaned against the walls.

      I suppose I was naive to think planning a wedding that would only last an hour would be easy.

      I could not have been more wrong.

      Because we only have sixty minutes, everything has to go perfectly. If the nuptials run long, there might not be time for the father-daughter dance. If we take too long with photos, we might not have time to eat. If it takes longer than expected to cut the cake, there might not be time for the champagne toast.

      I weighed in when necessary — these flowers or those flowers, this cake or that cake — but most of the heavy lifting was left to Ingrid and my father.

      Anyhow, I continue down the stairs and make my way into the kitchen where my father is hovering over a skillet.

      Hey, Sonnyboy, he says with a wide smile.

      He is wearing flannel pajamas and red slippers. His glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose.

      Hey, Pops, I say, then nod at the living room. Looks like it’s coming together nicely in there.

      Yeah, he says, giving one of the pancakes on the skillet a flip. It’s going to look great when it’s all said and done.

      What time did Ingrid leave?

      Around 8:30. She and her parents were here for about three hours helping set up. He pauses, then adds, Her mother seems to be doing pretty well.

      Ingrid’s mother had a stroke last July. She was in a coma for a number of days, and when she did come around, she’d lost all ability to speak. She’d been going to speech therapy for the past eight months and had made a lot of progress.

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