Murmuration

“Above… grade. Don’t ask, don’t tell… get shot.”

It went on for a little while longer, but that was all Mike could make out. He thought about getting up, taking a look, but he didn’t want confirmation that he was hearing things, that there was nothing there. He thought it was another event. He just didn’t want to know it was another event.

But it’s fine now, because he’s not hearing voices that don’t belong. He’s surrounded by people that he knows, and yeah, maybe he’s starting to not trust them a little bit, maybe he’s wondering why no one’s asking the questions he’s asking, but at least he knows them. He’s known them for years, and that can’t be a farce. It’s all in his head, or so Doc thinks (hopes?), and he’s keeping track just like he’s being asked. He’s doing what Doc asked, and it’s fine.

(He’s not going to tell Doc about the questions he has, those little questions like What’s on the other side of the mountains? and Why can’t we leave, is this an island, are we an island?)

But that’s neither here nor there right now. Like most mornings (and most evenings), right now is about Sean and him and nothing else. He doesn’t want any of what’s going on in his head to affect Sean, not like this. Not because of him. He needs to keep Sean safe. Even if it’s from himself.

(And he’s angry about that, angrier than he’s been since he can even remember. It curdles his stomach and causes his head to pound, thinking that he could do anything to hurt Sean. But he’s getting angrier. At himself. At the situation. At the fact that he was good, he was so good until all this bullshit started happening. He’d rather be in the dark than see anything in a false light.)

So he’s sitting here, a cool cat, everyone is happy around him, and they think he’s happy too, and he is, he is, at least a little bit. Because Sean’s laughing and he’s winked at Mike, and he can’t ask for much more than that.

Except.

Except something’s niggling at him. Just at the back of his brain. It itches, but it’s nothing compared to everything else.

Except it’s getting worse when he sees Sean reading off orders on his notepad, those funny little phrases only known to diner folks (“I need a Heart Attack on a rack, Adam and Eve on a log, and make sure you give me a double order of shingles with a shimmy and a shake”). Walter’s just nodding along with Sean, the two of them going back years together.

Except that’s not quite right, is it?

Mike thinks, You weren’t always like this. You used to stand at someone else’s side and watch him do it. He was teaching you. He’d roll his eyes at you and tell you young people didn’t know shit about the art of grilling.

Walter looks up and sees Mike staring at him. He gives a little wave.

Mike waves back.

He’s young, isn’t he? Really young to be doing what he’s doing, and doing it well. Mike thinks of getting up and walking right back to that kitchen and saying How do you know how to do this so well? and Who taught you to be this way?

He’d get a shrug, he thinks. Maybe a bashful little smile. I guess it’s in my blood.

And maybe it is. Or maybe it belonged to someone else.

Crazy, Mike thinks. I’m going crazy, crazy, crazy.

(And he sees Sean out of the corner of his eye and wonders, just for a moment, if Sean knows something is wrong too, something back in that lizard brain, something that says, Wait a minute, just wait a minute. This isn’t how things used to be. Of course, in Mike’s lizard brain, it’s saying, What if he knows, what if he knows, what if he knows like everyone else? But Mike’s not paranoid. He’s not. Something’s wrong, and maybe Doc is right, but he’s not paranoid about Sean, he can’t be paranoid about Sean.)

He has a smile on his face. It’s a good one. One that everyone believes.

He almost believes it too.

His mind is a funny thing righ

t now. The connections it’s making. He’s thinking about Wüsthof Ikon Damascus, and he knows it’s expensive even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is. That leads to thoughts of a woman, anger twisting her features, and she’s saying, All I do is talk at you, never with you. You’re not here anymore. You’ve checked out. You don’t give a shit about me. You probably never even gave a shit about her. And that leads to breaking glass. Which leads to picture frames breaking as they fall off a wall. There’s an elbow to a nose and a white-hot rage that someone could hurt him like that, that someone would even—

The pictures, though.

There was something about the pictures.

Wasn’t there?

He looks to his left. There’s the one picture he loves most. The one of him and Sean at the end of the dock. The way Sean’s laughing—

(It’s not anything.

It’s always something.

Not with him. With you, yes.)