Chapter 8
The house felt hollow for the rest of the day. Arthur refused lunch, staying behind his closed bedroom door despite Elena’s gentle coaxing. Clara sat at the dining room table, her black clipboard open, staring blankly at a blank data sheet. She hadn't written a single word in over an hour.
“You pushed too hard, Clara,” Elena said gently, sitting across from her. “You know how much he hates feeling incapable.”
“If I don't pay attention to every detail, who will?” Clara asked, her voice tight with suppressed tears. She looked up, her eyes bright and shimmering. “You saw him with the coffee pot, Elena. One second he’s fine, and the next he’s spilling boiling water. What happens when I’m not standing right there?”
“We deal with it when it happens,” Elena replied firmly. “We can’t live in fear of every future catastrophe, or we’ll destroy the present moment entirely.”
Before Clara could answer, a sharp, high-pitched beep pierced the silence of the hallway.
Both women froze. It was the electronic sensor on the front door—the compromise Clara and Elena had agreed upon instead of a deadbolt. The alarm sounded again, a rhythmic, electronic pulse indicating that the front door had just been opened.
Clara leaped to her feet so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood floor. Her clipboard clattered onto the table, sending loose papers fluttering into the air. Without a word, she bolted down the hallway toward the foyer. Elena was right behind her, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The front door stood wide open, letting in a gust of cold autumn wind that whipped the sheer curtains into the air.
Arthur was gone.
On the porch, a single set of footprints led down the concrete steps toward the empty driveway. The street outside was quiet, flanked by falling leaves and gray asphalt stretching out into the afternoon haze.
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“Dad!” Clara screamed, her voice losing all professional composure as she sprinted down the steps and onto the sidewalk.
Elena followed closely, scanning the length of the suburban street. There was no sign of him near the mailbox or behind the parked delivery van down the block. He had vanished into the neighborhood with terrifying speed, stripped of his keys, his car, and his bearings, armed only with a desperate, instinctual need to find a home that no longer existed in reality.
