I take a sip of my coffee, black and bitter, and that sharp taste feels like a slap to the soul. One part caffeine, two parts resignation.
Sammy bounds into the kitchen, face bright, notebook in hand again.
“Mom! He’s beside his rose bush with some kind of scanner. This time it’s definitely medical.”
I arch an eyebrow. "You're not the scanner authority."
“Oooh,” she crows. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Not right now.”
“I am.” She’s writing—fast, furious. “He’s checkingsomethingin the petals!”
I pin her with a look. “You’re not following him again.”
She shrugs without looking up. “I’m not afollower.I'm a keen observer of unusual terrestrial behavior.”
I chuckle despite myself. “That’s a new one.”
She snorts. “Keep up, Mom.”
The morning continues in blur: meetings with tenants in broken heat, phone calls that ended in tears, staring at eviction notices watching my resolve crumble. I’m in Lipnicky’s office bynine, the man himself looming behind his desk—hands folded, voice smooth as diluted honey.
“I need you to slide another downtown storefront,” he says. “The prior owner’s eviction was reversed for procedural reasons. We need another solution.”
I force a smile. "Absolutely. Consider it handled."
He squeezes his shoulders. “I appreciate it, Vanessa. You’re doing the company—and this town—a service.”
Service. My stomach flips at that phrase. If preserving Lipnicky’s portfolio is “service,” I must be a villain in my kid’s bedtime stories.
After lunch, I find myself back home, standing at the sink long after the dishes are done. There’s still time in the day. I mean to finish laundry but drift to the living room window and press my forehead to the cool glass.
He’s moved on from roses. Now he’s at the edge of the driveway, kneeling beside what looks like a raised planter. Something about his posture, the set of his neck, is so alienally precise it makes me ache with curiosity.
What if I just… walked over?
I shake my head. Don’t do that. Not until I know more.
The evening stretches ahead—separate from this suburban hum. I worry about Sam’s dinner, her homework. I worry about the bakery. I worry about whether I’m going to be on eviction list next, purely because I’m soft, because I bleed, because I have a heart.
Still, I linger at the window. Watch as the scanner emits a soft glow over his hands. Watch as his forehead creases. Watch as he switches measurement pads, adjusting the readings on a small screen. Watch even as the sunset edges shift in his eyes when he finally notices me—our eyes lock, his gaze steady but unflinching.
That pull returns. A hollow ache, a gentle chain. A weightless tether.
I turn away before I stumble forward, and I swallow hard, blinking tears that are too tired to name themselves.
Tomorrow, I’ll go over. Ask questions. Offer help.
But for tonight, I just want to sit with this feeling, let it roll around like hot stones in my gut because it’s the only thing in my life that still feels alive.
Sammy’s latest intelligence operation is in full swing, and I swear half the neighborhood must think we’re in witness protection. But no—we’re in the middle of a conspiracy. And my ten-year-old is its fiercest investigator.
I tiptoe down the hall to her room after lights-out, half-expecting fox noises or encrypted radio chatter. Instead, I’m met with the soft whir of her homemade surveillance setup—two makeup mirrors duct-taped to a windowsill, angled perfectly to catch any movement across the street. A small telescope perches on a tripod like an antennae. Time-stamped notes are tacked to the wall—Rose bush scan: 6:07 PM—machine beeped twice,Gloved hands seen assembling device: 7:15 PM.
Over it all, a crudely drawn board spelling out Evidence of Alien Origin. Under each note, Sammy has added red stars: five for confirmed findings, three for inconclusive, and one suspicious emoji for “possible extraplanetary activity.”
She’s sat at her desk, scribbling furiously when I enter. Under the glow of a small lamp, shadows tumble across her determined face. The room smells strongly of crayons, sandalwood incense, and the faint trace of spilled grape juice.
