Page 127 of What We Burn

I always text ahead, because the one time I didn’t, Ray met me at the door with a frying pan and Dennis had the Glock out. Gloria called it a proportional response. I called it attempted manslaughter. We agreed to disagree.

Inside the house is dark except for the kitchen window, where I can see someone moving behind the curtain. Probably Gene. Gene doesn’t sleep. I’ve never once arrived at this house at any hour without Gene being awake, doing some form of quiet domestic labor. Folding towels. Polishing the banister. Sorting the recycling into categories so specific I’m convinced he invented some of them.

I let myself in with my key. The entryway smells like Pine-Sol and the sweet, yeasty scent of baked bread. There’s always something baking. Mom runs this house the way a general runs a forward operating base, and the oven is her artillery.

Gene is in the kitchen. He’s in a bathrobe and slippers, wiping down the counter. The turtleneck underneath the robe is gray tonight. There are always turtlenecks. Kinky motherfuckers.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Milo.” He nods without looking up. “Your mother left you a plate in the fridge. Chicken parm. There’s also banana loaf on the counter if you want something sweet.”

“I’m good, thanks. I’m just heading downstairs.”

“I’ll bring you tea.”

“Gene, you really don’t have to⁠—”

“Chamomile or peppermint?”

The thing about Gene is that arguing with him about caretaking is like arguing with gravity about falling. You can have a philosophical objection, but you’re still going to hit the ground.

“Peppermint.”

He nods and reaches for the kettle.

I head for the basement and unlock each bolt in sequence, press my thumb to the pad, and the lock chirps its happy little beep. The door swings open and the cold hits me like a wall.

My kingdom. My brain in physical form.

Some people meditate. Some go to the gym. Others have hobbies that don’t require a biometric pad and a power bill that could fund a small nation. I come here, where the racks hum and the backup batteries blink green and the cables snake across every surface in a tangle that looks like chaos but is actually a filing system only I understand. It’s like the inside of my skull, except the inside of my skull also has three unfinished snack lists, a theory about whether pigeons are government drones, and the bass line from a song I heard in a gas station in 2019 that I will never identify but will also never stop hearing.

I drop into the chair, boot up, and open the encrypted channel.

Me:

You up?

Four seconds.

FENRIR:

I don’t sleep.

Me:

Ever?

FENRIR:

Not when there’s work.

Me:

Well, that’s healthy. We love a work-life balance icon.

Fair enough. Neither do I, which is why I’m in my mother’s basement instead of in bed with the woman I love—which is where I’d rather be. But the tracker in Sage’s choker says she’s at her apartment with Eli. Hopefully dealing with whatever pent-up sexual rage those two have been building since Eli tried to break up with her on behalf of all of us. Bastard.

But anyway, she’s safe. They’re fucking it out. And I have a dog pack to dismantle.