I woke to the sound of violence, low, mechanical, and relentless. My eyes flew open. For one panicked second, I thought it might be helicopters. Or the FBI. Or something worse.
Kyle bolted upright in the bed. “Mom?”
I was already sitting up, my heart racing. “I hear it.”
“What is that?” he asked, his eyes darting to the door like whatever it was might burst through at any second. “Are we under attack?”
I listened again. The steady growl, the aggressive back-and-forth, was vaguely familiar.
“I think it’s… a vacuum cleaner,” I said slowly, testing the word out loud.
Kyle frowned. “Why?”
My thoughts exactly. Why? And who?
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “We don’t… do that anymore.”
The noise surged closer, louder now, like it was mapping the house. Claiming territory.
Kyle pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Is it supposed to sound angry?”
“Yes,” I said. “They all do.”
Another pass. The unmistakable thud of furniture being moved. Voices layered over the hum. Multiple voices.
“I don’t like this,” Kyle said.
“Neither do I.” I slid out of bed, every muscle tense.
“No, don’t.” Kyle threw the covers off and followed so close behind that he crashed right into me when I stopped to crack the door open. We both peeked out.
The house was alive. Like a productive ant colony. People were scurrying about with purpose. Scott was in the living room, sleeves rolled up, calling out instructions while our neighbor, Malcolm, hauled trash bags toward the door. Quinn was polishing the coffee table with the hem of his shirt. Grace was dusting with a fluff wand like she was granting wishes. And Emma was on her knees scrubbing something that absolutely did not deserve that level of effort. But they weren’t the only worker ants. Scott’s parents, of all people, were sorting mail with grim focus, his brother Paul had window-washing duty, and Mitch stood on a ladder swapping out light bulbs. But it was who was wielding the vacuum that surprised me the most—April.
My brain stalled.
Scott looked up and caught my eye. “Oh, good. You’re up. Get dressed,” he said, not unkindly. “Our room is next.”
Without a word I shut the door. Kyle and I stared at each other.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think this is permanent?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think I like it.”
Kyle and I spent the next few minutes tidying up. I’d had to move him out of his room and into mine because his smelled more like a hazardous waste dump than a kid’s bedroom, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with it properly.
In normal times, sharing a bed with me would’ve been viewed as a punishment—a fate worse than death—but these weren’t normal times, and Kyle needed the closeness while we worked to find some sort of lasting peace without our Jake.
But the vacuum? No. That hadn’t come out of the hall closet. Not even once.
After getting dressed, I made my way down the hall.
Scott whistled as I passed. “Look at you, all awake and shit.”
I gestured to him. “What’s with the Scooby-Doo attitude?”
