Preston steps into the moonlight. He is wearing a silk kimono and holding a battery-operated fan. He looks like a bored emperor in exile.
"I’m spiraling," I admit, not stopping.North. Pivot."My brain is a logic loop. I don't have a schedule, Preston. I don't know what happens next. The uncertainty of the wedding... the audit... the variables are overwhelming."
Preston sighs. He falls into step beside me. He matches my stride perfectly. Twelve steps. Pivot.
"I know," Preston says softly. "I thought silence would help. I thought if I removed the noise, you’d relax. I was projecting."
"Projecting what?"
"My own need for quiet," Preston says. "I assumed you needed what I need. It was a diagnostic error."
We reach the koi pond. The fish are sleeping. Or dead. It’s unclear.
"Mother taught us to be competitors," Preston says, his voice losing its usual sharp edge. "The Heir and the Spare. She pitted us against each other like horses on a track. I didn't know how to be your brother, Max. I only knew how to be your rival."
We pivot south.
"I thought if I analyzed you," Preston continues, "if I figured out how your brain worked, I could 'fix' us. I could bridge the gap. But I was using the wrong tools. I was jealous of the 'Standard'. I didn't realize the Standard was a cage."
He stops. I stop, my rhythm broken.
Preston reaches into his kimono pocket. He pulls out a napkin stolen from the dinner service and a Montblanc pen.
"Here," he says.
I take the napkin. In Preston’s elegant, spiky script, he has written a list.
The Bachelor Protocol:
23:00 - 00:00: Pacing and Existential Dread (Scheduled).
00:00 - 01:00: Critique of Landscape Architecture.
01:00 - 02:00: Brotherly Bonding (Minimal Eye Contact).
02:00: Attempt REM Sleep.
06:00: Emergency Extraction. We are getting bacon.
I stare at the napkin. My chest loosens. The static in my head clears. It is a schedule. It is a plan.
"You made an itinerary," I whisper.
"I gave you parameters," Preston corrects me. "I’m sorry, Max. I’m sorry I didn't know how to do this sooner."
I look at him. "You are learning. This is... adequate data."
"High praise from the Ice King," Preston smiles.
Suddenly, a sound shatters the zen silence. A high-pitched, rhythmic beeping.
It is coming from Preston’s pocket.
"You kept the pager?" I ask.
"I am the backup protocol," Preston admits, pulling it out. He checks the screen. His face goes serious. "It’s the transplant coordinator. Code 1."
I grab the pager. The code is for Mrs. O'Brian.
