Page 124 of One Adult, Please

"Mom, I have to go. The signal's going."

"I love you. Don't trip."

"I love you. I'll try not to trip. I won't succeed but I'll try."

"That's all I ask."

The signal cuts.

I sit on the floor for a while.

The amount of time it takes for the tears to finish and the comedy armor to start rebuilding. Which is usually about thirty seconds but today takes longer because today the armor wants to stay in the pile with the feelings and the cracked snow globe of my emotional infrastructure. And maybe that's okay. Maybe the armor can stay off for more than thirty seconds when you're sitting on a floor surrounded by people who've already seen what's underneath it.

I put the handset back on the console. I wipe my face with the Wondie hoodie sleeve, which now has tears on it in addition to the powdered sugar and glitter. The hoodie has been through a hero's journey. The hoodie deserves a memoir.

I stand up. "She's bringing the cat," I say. "And a neighbor. Who's nice. And a small hostile dog. And a casserole that's been at room temperature for days, which is a food safety situation. But Mrs. Patterson's casseroles are a food safety situation under optimal conditions so the apocalypse is honestly just a lateral move for the tuna."

Joel nods. "Good."

"What kind of cat?" Grant asks.

"Maine Coon. Her name is Biscuit. She's enormous. She weighs eighteen pounds and she's all fur and opinions and she gets car sick and she hates her carrier. And she has a thing she does with her tail when she's stressed, which is always, because Biscuit experiences the world as a series of personal insults that she endures with the grace of a very large cat who deserves better."

Beck grins. The sunrise grin. "I'm going to love Biscuit."

"Everyone loves Biscuit. Biscuit doesn't love everyone back. Biscuit's love is an exclusive membership. The application process is rigorous and mostly involves sitting very still and letting her sniff your hand for approximately forty-five minutes while she decides if you deserve to exist in her space."

"Maine Coon," Grant says. "That's a large predatory animal in a park with a red-tailed hawk."

"Captain's going to have to deal with it."

"Captain isn't the one I'm worried about. Biscuit outweighs him by approximately fifteen pounds and has claws. They'll need controlled introductions and separate sleeping areas."

"Biscuit has been negotiating territory with a Roomba for three years. Biscuit versus Captain is going to be the diplomatic event of the season."

"And Kevin," Grant says.

"Biscuit will teach Kevin respect. I won't intervene because Kevin's had this coming since the pond incident."

I pick up the crayon plan and the periwinkle nub, which is now the size of a pencil eraser. I hold it between my thumb and forefinger like a precious gem because the periwinkle is a precious gem.

I write the last item on the crayon plan.

Not the last last. There will always be more items because the plan grows the way we grow, one crayon line at a time.

But the last item for today: MOM IS COMING. BISCUIT IS COMING. MRS. PATTERSON IS COMING. MR. NOODLES IS COMING. THE CASSEROLE IS COMING (PROCEED WITH CAUTION).

I add, underneath, in letters so small the periwinkle barely survives: We made it.

I fold the plan and put it in my pocket with the periwinkle.

Beck pushes off the wall. "I need to prepare the crime boat."

"You don't need to..."

"Your mother is coming to the crime boat. Where we live. The crime boat currently has an axe collection, a dolphin breastplate drying rack, and a sleeping bag that smells like a man who fights zombies for a living. I need to prepare."

"Beck, my mother once found a live frog in my dorm room laundry basket. She can handle the crime boat."