The Giant's Grasp

Before my business trip, my wife showed me a frantic charcoal sketch of a strange man. "He's a giant," she trembled, "I keep dreaming he's holding me in his palm, slowly crushing the life out of me." I told her it was just a nightmare and kissed her goodbye. When I returned, she was dead on the bedroom floor. The detective didn't look surprised. He just stared at her body, sighed, and muttered, "Sixteen. That's sixteen this year."