He does five hundred jumping jacks.
Two hundred push-ups.
Jumps rope for fifteen minutes.
Two hundred sit-ups.
He’s sweating by the time he’s done.
He needs a shower. Maybe a glass of juice after. Or maybe Sean will have some orange juice for him with his breakfast, the pulpy kind he loves so much. Sean always makes a face when he drinks it.
So he’s distracted by thoughts of a secret smile just for him and scratching absently at his wrist when he stubs his toe and trips over something lying on the ground near his bedroom door.
He grunts out a curse, something so rarely done that it surprises even him. That’s okay, though. It’s to be expected. That hurt.
He winces and hops on one foot for a moment. The pain fades almost immediately, as these things often do. The initial burst was the worst part of it.
He looks down.
On the floor lies his old wooden Louisville Slugger, its handle wrapped in peeling tape.
He frowns. He doesn’t know how the hell that got out here. It’s been sitting in the back of his closet for years.
“Did you do this?” he asks Martin.
Martin ignores him, as cats often do.
“Losing it,” he mutters as he bends over to pick up the bat. For a moment, he thinks the handle is warm, like it was clutched for hours, but he shakes his head. That’s just crazy talk. There’s no one else here. Martin must have dragged it out from the closet at night. Maybe he lay on it. Yeah, that sounds about right.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” he says to Martin.
Martin flicks his tail and does nothing more.
Mike leaves him to it.
THE MILKMAN’S already come and gone by the time Mike steps out the front door. There’s two bottles of milk and a small dish of sour cream that Mike had asked for special for tonight for a dip for their snacks. He picks up the metal crate and takes it inside. The milk and sour cream go in the refrigerator and he’s ready to start his day.
He shuts the door behind him and thinks, Maybe I should lock it, and then shakes his head. He doesn’t know where that came from. He doesn’t need to lock his door. He never does. This is Amorea, after all.
It’s a quarter till seven. The shop opens at eight. It’ll take him ten minutes to get to the diner. That’s a good hour of time he’ll have with Sean if it’s not too busy. He’s looking forward to it.
There’s a feather on the ground near the end of the walkway to his house. It’s violet and green and brown and very pretty. He’s never seen anything like it before.
No matter, though.
Sean’s waiting for him.
Mike says “Good morning” to his neighbors as they walk toward town.
It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.
V
“YOU’RE STILL scratching your wrist,” Sean says as he comes to refill Mike’s coffee mug. He leans against the table as he does it, and Mike’s fingers brush against his hip—whether by accident or design, he doesn’t really know.
“Just itches a bit,” he says. He didn’t even realize he was doing it again.
“You’re going to rub it raw.”