“Well, this is anticlimactic,” said Hunter. He hadn’t even killed the engine in the jeep.
Michael glanced over. “You have a key?”
“Sure.”
But he didn’t want to go inside. This felt like a free pass, and he was tempted to peel out of here, spraying gravel behind him.
“If your stuff is packed up,” said Michael, “we can just grab it and go, right?”
Point.
The house felt the same as he remembered, some lingering scent from his grandmother’s chili—which she made every weekend—combined with the faint whiff of the potpourri sitting out in the living room. Cool and quiet and still.
Nothing was in the front hallway, but maybe she’d left his stuff downstairs.
Or maybe she hadn’t packed it up at all.
Hunter couldn’t decide which option he was hoping for.
He felt jittery now, not knowing where everyone was or when they’d be home. He was just standing there between the dining room and the living room, keys jingling nervously in his hand.
“So . . . ,” started Michael. “Upstairs?”
“No. Down. Follow me.”
The basement was ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, something he’d never really noticed until today. He hit the switches to light up the space.
She’d packed. Two plastic storage boxes plus a duffel bag were laid out on his bed.
His old bed. His quilt was gone, either packed away or folded in one of these boxes. His Xbox and alarm clock were gone. His books, his old school notebooks—everything. The room looked like it was waiting for the next tenant.
He snapped the lid off one of the boxes. Mostly electronics and notebooks, though two framed pictures lay right on top.
Michael picked up one. “Your dad and uncle?”
For some reason, Hunter wanted to snatch it away from him.
“Yeah.” He held out a hand. “Don’t say I look exactly like my dad. I get that all the time.”
Michael glanced up. He handed back the frame. “Hunter, there is nothing about you that would make me say you look exactly like this guy.”
Hunter stared back at him in surprise.
“Look in a mirror sometime,” said Michael.
Hunter glanced at the picture again. He was trying to decide whether or not that was an insult when the front door of the house slammed.
It might as well have been a gunshot right into his heart. His pulse rate tripled.
“Relax,” said Michael. “Your mom said you could come get your stuff.” He put the plastic lid back on the box Hunter had opened—leaving the frame clutched between Hunter’s hands. Then he jerked his head at the other one. “Grab that, huh?”
It spurred him into motion. Hunter slung the duffel bag over a shoulder, grabbed the box, and headed for the stairs, Michael following.
He didn’t really want to see any of them, but he hoped it was his mom. She seemed like the lesser of two evils.
But of course it was his grandfather who appeared at the top of the stairs.
Hunter stopped short and stared up at him.
He knew about thirty ways to disarm someone bare-handed, but just now he wanted to duck behind Michael.
That realization shocked him into movement again. “I’m just getting my stuff,” he said. “Mom said I could.”
His grandfather didn’t move from the top of the steps, and Hunter stopped there on the second to last step, the plastic box a barrier between them.
The man was glaring. Hunter glared back.
He wanted to shove him with the box. Hard.
“Who’s your friend?” said his grandfather. “One of the ones who trashed the kitchen?”
“No,” said Michael. “One of the ones offering Hunter a place to live.”
When no one said anything and no one moved, Michael added, “Could you please step aside so we can take these out to the car?”
To Hunter’s surprise, his grandfather actually stepped back—but he didn’t look happy about it.
“Just keep walking,” Michael said quietly.
Good advice. Hunter broke the staring match and started walking.
Unfortunately, his grandfather seemed to think he’d won some battle. He grabbed Hunter’s arm before he could go past. “Maybe I should check those. Make sure you aren’t taking anything that’s not yours.”
Hunter gritted his teeth. “Mom packed them.”
“You still owe me for the mess in the kitchen. Maybe I should take that GameBox thing—”
“Fine,” snapped Hunter. “Take it. I don’t give a—”
“Whoa.” Michael caught Hunter’s arm.
Hunter realized he’d slammed his own box onto the ground, and it seemed like he’d been ready to swing a fist.
He took a breath. It felt like the first breath of winter, a stinging cold that sliced into his lungs.