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9
Rebecca Firestone didn’t speak with Shadow Star, even on the last broadcast at ten.
Dad had texted, saying everything was fine.
Seth didn’t text at all.
By the time the front door opened early the next morning, Nick was already showered and dressed, standing in the kitchen, trying to figure out how he managed to burn toast when it was on the lowest setting. He hadn’t been distracted, not really, so it must have been a faulty toaster.
Dad looked tired, his duty belt sagging around his waist, bags under his eyes. He yawned when he came into the kitchen, blinking blearily as he went to the coffee maker that was programmed to start brewing at four in the morning. He poured himself a cup of decaf—keeping it black, much to Nick’s disgust—took a sip, and sighed.
Then he seemed to notice Nick.
He frowned.
Nick smiled.
Dad looked down at his watch, then back up at Nick. He saw the burnt toast on a plate, and the bowl of oatmeal with fruit already sitting on the table.
He said, “Hey.”
“Hi,” Nick said, smiling wider.
“What did you do?”
Nick scowled at him. “I didn’t do anything.”
Dad took another sip of liquid death. “You’re up—and dressed—before I even got home. You made breakfast—”
“You’re welcome, though the toast is burnt and the oatmeal is lumpy for reasons I don’t want to discuss.”
“—and I don’t think this has ever happened before. Ever.”
“Can’t a son do something nice for his hardworking father without there being a hidden agenda?”
Dad waited.
“It’s altruistic,” Nick insisted.
Dad snorted. “Is that right?”
“Yes.The fact that you think I would do something nice for untoward reasons is frankly offensive. I will accept your apology when you’re ready to give it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dad said. “Burnt toast and lumpy oatmeal?”
Nick shrugged. “It could have been worse. It’s probably best that we don’t discuss what happened to the eggs I tried making first.”
“Is that what that smell is?”
“Yeah. Apparently no matter how much Febreeze one sprays, that egg smell tends to stick around. Who knew? Sit! Take a load off!”
Dad did just that, sliding off his duty belt and placing it on the counter.
Nick grabbed a chair and dragged it next to his dad’s. He sat, elbows on the table, and watched his father closely.
Dad looked like he was trying not to be amused but failed miserably.
He swirled the oatmeal. It wasn’t as lumpy as it’d been moments before, much to Nick’s relief. He watched as Dad took a bite. “Good?”
