Chương 3
“I knew this was going somewhere bad.”
“Not bad.”
“You asked me for menu boards after getting ditched by your family.”
“Temporary reuse of retired equipment.”
“That is the most regional-manager sentence you’ve ever said.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I got out of the car and walked back toward the house.
Buddy watched me through the window until I opened the door, then trotted toward the kitchen as if he had personally solved the crisis.
I put my backpack on the counter and opened the refrigerator.
There were containers of cut vegetables, six glass bottles of cold-pressed juice, a carton of oat milk, and one lonely package of sliced cheddar hidden behind a bowl of organic blueberries.
Dad’s cheddar, probably.
Mom treated ordinary cheese the way medieval villages treated plague.
“Owen, how much of the Redmond stuff is still usable?”
“You mean cosmetically?”
“Yes.”
“A lot.”
“Counter panels?”
“Three.”
“Menu boards?”
“Two working digital displays and one dead frame.”
“Tables?”
“Four two-tops, maybe five.”
“Chairs?”
“Enough.”
He paused.
“Why do I feel like I’m helping you commit a felony?”
“Because you worry too much.”
“No, because you’re inventorying restaurant fixtures inside your parents’ house.”
“I’m not stealing anything.”
“Technically, you’d be bringing them something.”
“Exactly.”
“That did not make it better.”
I opened the pantry and found Buddy’s medication in a white plastic bottle beside a bag of dental treats.
Wednesday was circled on the label in Mom’s handwriting.
Whatever I did, I would have to stay close enough to take care of him.
That irritated me because it meant even my anger came with a schedule.
“I need a truck.”
“You own a truck.”
“I own a Ford Escape.”
“That’s because you dress like a man who says ‘fuel efficiency’ at parties.”
“I don’t go to parties.”
“Fair.”
Owen finally gave in with the sigh of somebody volunteering for a bad decision while pretending he had been forced.
“The equipment is in the storage unit off 124th.”
“I know.”
“I can meet you there at ten.”
“Bring the access key.”
“You have one.”
“I returned mine after the remodel.”
Another pause.
“Of course you did.”
I heard his coffee machine hiss in the background.
Then his voice changed.
“What exactly are you planning?”
I looked at the living room.
The cream sectional alone probably cost more than the first car I owned.
Mom had once made Kyle remove his shoes because she said the rug fibers held outside energy.
She had no problem walking across my dignity in boots.
“I’m going to make the room look like a restaurant.”
Owen laughed.
Not because it was funny.
It was the startled laugh people make when somebody says something so unreasonable that the brain tries humor before concern.
“You’re going to put McDonald’s furniture in Linda’s living room?”
“Retired corporate-neutral fixtures.”
“Oh, definitely call them that when the police arrive.”
“The police aren’t arriving.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I have permission to be here.”
“For the dog.”
“Mom told me to take care of the house.”
“She told you to take care of Buddy.”
“She’ll dispute the wording.”
“She absolutely will.”
I walked into the living room and measured the space with my eyes.
The sectional occupied one wall.
Two pale chairs sat opposite it.
A white oak coffee table stood between them with three hardcover wellness books arranged by height.
The television was mounted above a low cabinet.
There was enough open floor to build something convincing.
Not permanent.
Not destructive.
Just impossible to ignore.
“I’m not damaging anything.”
“That sounds like a legal defense you’ve been practicing.”
“I’m moving furniture into storage.”
Owen stopped laughing.
“Dan.”
“Climate-controlled storage.”
“Your parents’ furniture?”
“For ten days.”
“Do they know?”
“They didn’t tell me I wasn’t going on the cruise.”
“That is emotionally relevant and legally irrelevant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I sat on the edge of the sofa.
Its cushion barely moved.
Mom’s furniture was designed for people who didn’t actually sit.
My phone buzzed again.
A message from Dad.
Help your mother out with the dog.
That was all.
Not Sorry.
Not We should have told you.
Just another assignment.
I showed the screen to nobody.
Buddy scratched his ear beside me.
“Dad finally texted.”
“What’d he say?”
“Help Mom with the dog.”
Owen muttered something.
“What?”
“I said your family has a talent.”
“For what?”
“Making cruelty sound administrative.”
That landed harder than I wanted it to.
I stood.
“I’ll see you at ten.”
“Dan.”
“I’m not wrecking anything.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
“I’m worried that you’re about to do something technically careful and emotionally nuclear.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“You called me about restaurant fixtures eight minutes after being abandoned.”
“Excluded.”
“What?”
“They didn’t abandon me.”
I looked at Buddy.
“They abandoned him.”
Owen was quiet again.
“Ten o’clock,” he said.
“Don’t move anything heavy before I get there.”
We hung up.
I spent the next half hour walking Buddy around the neighborhood.
He dragged me toward every wet hedge and mailbox like he had personally scheduled inspections.
The morning had warmed enough that families were beginning to appear outside.
A man washed a black SUV in his driveway.
Two kids rode scooters in circles near the corner.
A woman jogging with headphones waved at me because she recognized Buddy.
Everything continued as if nothing humiliating had happened.
I appreciated that more than I expected.
There was relief in being one irritated man holding a dog leash instead of the center of some cosmic injustice.
Buddy stopped beside a storm drain and stared into it.
“Don’t.”
He stared harder.
“Whatever is down there has a better family than I do.”
His tail wagged.
“Low bar.”
Back at the house, I made coffee with Dad’s machine.
Mom had replaced ordinary sugar with packets of something labeled monk fruit, so I drank it black.
Then I started taking photographs.
Not angry photographs.
Inventory photographs.
May you like
Wide shots of the living room.
Close shots of the sectional, chairs, tables, lamps, television cabinet, framed pictures, and decorative objects.
