by Drew Pierce
That morning, I had the kind of premonition you can’t prove but can’t shake—a foreboding feeling tuned just beyond clarity. Still, I stuck to the routine: wheat bran floating in oat milk, tossing yesterday’s semolina in the general direction of the birds who never said thank you.
My wife texted: Hair iron still plugged in?
She asks every Tuesday and most Thursdays. It has never been true.
I replied with the usual emojis: house, fire, gun.
Saxson, the rat terrier with a God-given limp and a vet-given prescription, took his constitutional dump on the corner of Larch and Maple. He looked smug about it.
Still, the feeling gnawed at my gut.
Something was circling.
My watch read 7:42am. Mandy would be rolling out of her rumpled dorm room bed, zipping up her Nor’easter canvas bag while sipping scorched black coffee from a sunflower-yellow Yeti as she walked to Ruddley Hall for American History 101.
Last night, she’d called, her voice quieter than usual, pausing mid-sentence before pivoting to some term from class. I pressed the phone between my ear and shoulder, transferring damp laundry to the dryer, losing another ankle sock to the ether. The lint trap was clogged with pink elastic and fleece, and I cleaned it with two fingers and a practiced grimace.
Upstairs, the screen door slammed with such drama that the kitchen flinched.
Trevor was back from his morning run.
I came up the stairs and stuck out my fist perpendicularly, knowing that anything other than the slightest acknowledgment of his existence could spawn a heated exchange. His knuckles grazed mine as he reached for the ancient blender and kicked off his sneakers. He dropped in five frozen strawberries, a scoop of whey protein, some ice cubes, and a splash of what I hoped was unexpired almond milk. The electric growl of the blender’s motor filled the room.
I watched Trevor, wearing one sock, chug his smoothie with preposterous urgency. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at me. I knew the look; it’s the same as his mother when there was something to tell me that I was not going to like.
My mind scanned the possibilities: will this cost me time, money or pride?
“Uncle Ryan called,” he said, setting his empty glass in the sink without rinsing it. “He’s coming by soon.”
The sick feeling in my stomach crystallized into something sharp and defined.
The last time my brother and I were face to face was at Dad’s funeral. He showed up late, reeking of bourbon, and tried to pocket Grandpa Mike’s old watch from the casket display. When I called him out, he swung at me—left me with a black eye and a cracked pair of Ray-Bans. His departure was less exit than escape.
Trevor turned on the TV in the living room. Some singers I had never heard of were accepting an award I didn’t recognize.
I went to the sink to rinse the residue from the dirty glass. As the sponge reached the depths of the bottom, I swept the strawberry achenes up in a swirling motion.
“He just wants to talk,” Trevor mumbled from the other room.
I stepped into the threshold between kitchen and living room, water still running behind me like a secondary thought.
“You’ve spoken to him?” I asked, unable to hide my disappointment.
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Trevor shrugged, not quite meeting my eyes. “It was just once. He said it was important.
“Trev, this is the same guy who missed your championship game. Made Mandy cry on Easter. For God’s sake, he nearly let Saxson out last time he was here! And let’s not forget how he circled like a vulture when Grandpa Mike died.”
Trevor put down his phone and muted the TV with a dramatic flourish.
“You gotta chill, dad,” Trevor said, his voice softer now. “Maybe he wants to apologize. Or maybe something’s wrong. He sent me a text last month, you know, about that old skateboard he gave me for my tenth birthday. Said he missed those days. I don’t know, it was weird—but kind of nice, in a way.”
“Tell me exactly what he said,” I demanded.
The water kept running, and for once, Trevor looked at me. A real look—not the drive-by glances we’d been trading for years.
He shifted in his seat, thumbed his phone, but didn’t look at it. I could see the fight in him—something between defense and compassion, like he wasn’t sure if protecting Ryan was the right call or just the easier one.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Waiting.
“I don’t remember the exact words,” Trevor finally said. “He just said he needed to come by to talk. Something about Mandy. He sounded…I don’t know. Different. Maybe nervous?”
That scared me more than anything.
The faucet still ran in the other room. The sound had become a kind of static, like a faulty radio station playing behind our conversation. I imagined the sink filling, inch by inch, until it spilled over the porcelain lip and onto the kitchen floor, soaking through the tiles, down into the basement, eventually rotting the foundation of the house.
I pushed off the door frame and stepped back into the kitchen. Turned the water off with a firm twist. The sudden silence was jarring.
That’s when we heard it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
Trevor and I looked at each other.
We didn’t move. I just stood there while Trevor sat, listening, as the car door creaked open outside and the wind pushed through the trees like it knew something we didn’t.
The water wasn’t running anymore, but I still heard it.
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