Drift
Phineas hangs his keys on the third hook. His shoes are aligned perfectly perpendicular to the wall, left toe exactly even with right. Two hours until the front door opens. Dinner on the table at precisely 6:30. Tick. Tick. Tick. Place the coffee on a coaster, handle to the left, remote to the right. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t run. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just hold your breath and pray you’re not erased. Drift clocks the flinch on day one and files it away without comment. Doesn’t push for answers. Doesn’t loom. He waits. Pays attention. Notices everything. Phineas expects to be managed, cornered, controlled. Instead, he gets patience, counter space, and room to breathe. Room to rescue spiders. To laugh. To rewrite Drift’s gravity just by existing in it. But whoever put that look in Phineas’ eyes is still out there. And now they have Drift’s full attention.
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