He carried a heavy box, his arms wrapped around it. His boots thudded against the floor as he headed for the kitchen. Mom followed close behind, while Dad shouted from upstairs.
“Is that the delivery?” He laughed, clapping his hands as he came down the stairs. “The parts for my bike?”
I slid off the sofa and crept closer to the doorway. The hallway felt longer than it ever had.
The delivery man grunted as he lowered the box onto the kitchen floor.
“Engine parts,” he said. “Heavy ones.”
Mom nodded.
“He warned me,” she said. “Said not to try lifting it.”
Dad passed by me, grabbing the top of my head and messing with my hair as he went toward the kitchen. He took a knife and sliced through the tape. The cardboard peeled back to reveal layers of grease-stained paper and thick plastic.
He lifted a piece of something with both hands. “Crankshaft,” he said, almost proudly. “That alone weighs a ton.”
The man pointed back into the box. “There’s the cylinder head too. Pistons. Starter motor. The whole bottom end’s in there.”
Dad let out a low whistle. “No wonder you didn’t park far.”
Another smaller box sat beside the first, but even that one looked heavy. Dad nudged it with his foot.
“Gear assembly,” he said. “And bearings. Those things are solid steel.”
Mom crossed her arms. “I just don’t want oil on my counters.”
“I’ll take it to the garage,” Dad said, but he didn’t move yet. He was still staring into the box.
The delivery man cleared his throat, staring at my dad for too long.
Something was wrong.
I blinked.
The knife appeared in his hand, and he grabbed my mom, yanking her back against him. The blade pressed into her throat, dimpling her skin. She gasped, trying to claw at his arm with her palms.
My dad turned instantly.
His eyes locked on mine. His hand lifted, palm moving through the air, telling me to hide.
But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
I stood frozen, my back pressed to the doorway, my fingers numb against the wood. The man still hadn’t noticed me.
He reached into his pocket and took out zip ties. The plastic gently rasped as he separated them.
“Sit down,” he said to my dad.
Dad dragged a chair back. The legs scraped against the tile and then stopped just before he sat.
The man shoved the zip ties into my mom’s shaking hands and said, “Tie him up.”
She sobbed, her shoulders shaking, her hands trembling so badly she could barely hold them.
“Shut the fuck up,” he shouted.
She flinched but obeyed, looping the ties around Dad’s wrists, pulling them tight.
