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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Disturbing Signs


When I shared the good news about cracking domestication, Mom forcibly invited me to a celebration dinner in Tempe. Connor was still living at home while he finished engineering school, so I didn’t mind going. I got there early but didn’t see his car. Maybe he was out somewhere, gallivanting around. Getting home late for dinner. Such a slacker.

My mom opened the door on my second knock. “Hi, honey!” She squeezed me into her usual too-long hug, an embarrassment mitigated only by the unparalleled aroma of roast beef.

“Smells good in here,” I said. “Where’s Connor?”

“Where do you think? In his room.”

“I didn’t see his car out front. Did it break down again?”

She looked away from me. “We sold the car.”

“The Conmobile! You’re kidding me.” I shook my head. His junker was the only vehicle that made mine look decent. “Why?”

“He doesn’t drive so great anymore. It’s hard with his legs.”

“He’s never driven so great, if you ask me.” I brushed her off and went to give him some crap about it while the insults were fresh.

His door was closed. From beyond came the muted sound of machine-gun fire, interspersed with Connor yelling out orders. I banged on the door. “Con Air!”

The video game went silent. “Yes’m?” he called. His own version of yes ma’am.

“I’m coming in, so turn off the porno.”

I shoved his door open. The room was cleaner than usual, which meant Mom was cleaning it for him. The only mar on the cleanliness was a series of pockmarks all over the carpet, almost like footprints, but round. A grin found its way to my face. “What, are you doing a pogo stick in—”

Then I spotted the cane leaning up against his chair, and the barb died in my mouth. “Shit. What happened?”

He shrugged. “It’s just temporary. Been having some balance problems.”

I didn’t buy that. When someone with a muscular disease needed support, it was only temporary until they needed something more. “What about the physical therapy?”

“I’m taking a break from it.”

“It’s supposed to help you keep your strength up.”

“Then you do it.” He tugged off his headphones and flung them on his desk, where a monitor flashed the words you are dead in bright red letters.

I didn’t want to pick a fight when I’d just arrived, so I nodded at his monitor. “Is that Halo 16?”

“It’s Halo 17.”

“You dog! How did you get early access?”

“It’s been out two months.”

“Damn.” I’d essentially given up video games to focus on my thesis work, but I still missed them. “I didn’t even realize.”

“It’s probably for the best, since you’re not that good at it.”

Oh, I know he didn’t. “I think I have a few minutes to remind you who’s the alpha brother.”

“Bring it on!”

We played for probably half an hour, during which time Mom opened a bottle of wine and shouted increasingly slurred threats down the hallway. At last, I set down my controller with an air of finality. “Must be your lucky day.”

“Keep telling yourself that, dude.”

I couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Can you gimp it down to the kitchen or do you need me to carry you?”

“Psh.” He grabbed the cane and let it clunk me on the head on his way out to show what he thought of that. Then he raised his voice. “No, Noah, I’m not playing another game. Mom’s waiting for us!”

Judas. I cursed and scrambled after him, but he beat me to the table and left me with most of Mom’s ire.

“It’s half cold already,” she said.

“Looks amazing, Mom,” I said.

“It really does,” Connor said.

“You’re the best cook in a hundred miles, I’ve always said it.”

“In the entire state, if you ask me.”

She tried to keep frowning at us, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “I expect clean plates.”

“You bet,” I said.

“Noah’ll even do the dishes,” Connor added.

Double Judas.

The second dinner ended, he compounded the betrayal by claiming he had a study group session. He disappeared into his room, and I swear I heard the sound of distant video game gunfire. I didn’t want to abandon Mom, though, so I cleared the table while she loaded the dishwasher. I double-checked to make sure he wasn’t within earshot, then lowered my voice. “How long has he had the cane?”

“About two weeks. I insisted, after he kept falling.” She was careful not to make eye contact.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why not?”

“You know how he is.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s only temporary.”

I gave her a dubious look. We both knew that was a lie. “Any luck with the clinical trials?”

“Dr. Miller has a resident monitoring the registries for us.”

That meant no, he hadn’t qualified for any. And he’d continue not to qualify, as long as his mutation has its “uncertain significance” status. I didn’t have the heart to voice the thought, though. The whole situation sucked. It really did.

No one was going to fix it for us, either. It was all on me.





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Framed