Drone Command

TEN

The last bell rang and Troy dashed for the bus. Hadn’t heard a word the teacher said the whole last period. Was only counting the minutes on the clock until he could make his way back home.

Longest bus ride ever.

He leaped out of the bus as soon as the doors opened, hardly touching the steps. Jogged through the snow until his lungs hurt from the frigid air, then kept jogging some more. When he finally got winded, he pushed on, hands dug deep in his coat pockets, handfuls of snow crashing into him falling from the branches above.

Dad had fixed up the cabin extra nice for Christmas. The tree was lit; the air smelled like fir. The place was spotless, too.

Troy pushed through the door. He could smell a red velvet cake in the oven for Marichelle and the meatloaf for dinner, his mom’s favorite. His dad was cooking a lot these days. Clean and sober for seven months.

“You need any help?” Troy asked.

“Just don’t track any snow in here,” his dad said, salting a boiling pot on the stove.

“You got it.”

Troy had already pulled off his boots and coat in the mud room. He tossed his backpack on his bed, then headed back out to the living room to warm up in front of the crackling fire.

“How was school today?” his dad hollered from the kitchen.

“Great,” Troy said. And he meant it. He made his way into the kitchen and opened up the fridge.

“Can I get something to eat?”

“Sure,” his dad said. “But don’t get too full. Your mom and sister will be here soon.”

Troy smiled. Couldn’t help but notice the grin spread all over his dad’s face, too. He was all cleaned up and decked out in his best work shirt and jeans. Even wore an apron. Unbelievable.

He was really proud of his dad, the way he got his act together. Mom was right after all. Leaving his dad was the best thing for him. Made his dad wake up, make some choices. Even get some help. It had been a year and a half since they’d seen them, except for a few Polaroids Marichelle had sent. He wondered how tall she was now.

Troy grabbed a milk jug and filled a glass to the brim, then made himself a peanut butter sandwich while his dad tossed potatoes into the boiling pot.

“I said don’t get full, son.”

“No worries,” Troy said, his mouth full of sandwich. He was three inches taller than his dad already and still not yet fifteen. A bottomless pit for a stomach.

“Soon as you’re done, will you set the table?”

“Sure.”

“Settings for four.”

Troy grinned, his mouth full of mushy peanut butter sandwich. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”

“Don’t be a wisenheimer.”

They both knocked around in the kitchen for the next half an hour.

Tires crunched in the snow outside the cabin. Troy and his dad exchanged a nervous glance.

“They’re early,” his dad finally said. A tinge of anxiety in his voice. “Dinner’s not ready.”

“But it’s good that they’re here,” Troy said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” his dad said, smiling. “That’s really good!”

His dad pulled off his apron and dashed out of the kitchen through the mud room, Troy hot on his heels. His dad flung the front door open.

A state trooper’s car was parked next to his dad’s old truck. A grim-faced trooper trudged toward them through the crunching snow. His shoulder mic crackled with radio traffic.

“Excuse me, sir. Is this the Pearce residence?”

Troy’s dad shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir. Can I help you?”

“Is your wife named Helen?”

His dad’s face paled.

Troy’s head swam. Barely heard the trooper’s words.

Two hours ago.

Eighteen-wheeler.

No survivors.