Travis stretched, stood, and shuffled to his desk, dropping into the chair and tugging off his tie. Sonata, the game, still glowed on the monitor. A couple of chat windows were open. He stared at the screen. Another small window popped up:
Queen_Edalos: Hey Travis… what are you waiting for? Stop masturbating and do something useful—the orcs are attacking. I need gold.
A second line appeared:
Prince_Yalta: Hey Travis… the orcs are on Gaby. Her Majesty needs your gold.
Travis glanced at the time. Nearly midnight. He typed:
Travis_Knight: What are you two doing up? You should be asleep after your shifts.
Queen_Edalos: I just got back and can't sleep.Prince_Yalta: I got back and Gaby wouldn't let me sleep…
Travis yawned, stretched his arms, and wrote:
Travis_Knight: Sorry, guys. I'll cover both of you tomorrow. Bye.
He didn't wait for a reply—closed the window and went offline. He was about to power down the monitor when he decided to check his personal email. He clicked the icon; the inbox loaded. He scanned the list and, disappointed, found nothing from his grandfather, Victor Walder. He pressed his lips thin and closed the app.
He left his room and went downstairs to the living room, where a corner lamp cast a pool of warm light. Two suitcases stood by the front door. In the kitchen, his grandmother sat with a cup of tea. Edna wore a flight attendant's uniform, hair in a tight bun. Her features were still striking despite her age; her bright blue eyes flicked between sips to a small screen in the corner of the counter. The local news droned on about another murdered teenager—his photo alternating with footage from the scene. Edna shook her head and flipped to something lighter. Hearing the floorboards creak, she turned to find her grandson in the doorway.
"Travis! You're still in uniform?"
"I fell asleep… I could've sworn it was already tomorrow."
"It will be in an hour," she said, draining the cup. "My Uber will be here any minute. Go to bed." She rinsed the mug, set it in the rack, and crossed to the hall.
"Grandma… Grandpa hasn't written in a long time," Travis said, following her. "I'm worried."
"He's probably off on one of his adventures," Edna said, unruffled.
"We should go to the police."
"Oh, come on, Travis. He's busy, that's all."
"He wrote at least twice a week—no matter where he was. We have to do something. Maybe something happened…"
Her phone lit: the driver had arrived. She took her purse. Travis grabbed the larger suitcase.
"Let's give it a little time," Edna said. "Maybe he can't get a signal—or he's figuring out a new way to annoy me. Or he's with someone. You know how men are."
"I know something's wrong. I can feel it."
She studied him, sighed. "When I get back from Denver, we'll talk."
They hurried out together. Travis hauled the suitcase to the curb. Edna kissed his cheek and climbed into the car. He passed the luggage to the Uber driver, who heaved it into the trunk, then slid behind the wheel and pulled away—bound for LAX.
Travis watched the taillights shrink along the quiet street, its wet asphalt reflecting the glow of porch lamps and streetlights. The cloud cover was unbroken; not a single star. He sighed and turned back toward the house. In a neighboring window a figure stood watching him—Mrs. Romero, the Filipino woman next door. He only lifted his eyebrows and went inside. He bolted the doors and went up to his room.
At his desk he dropped into the chair, opened a drawer, and pulled out a spiral notebook. He flipped to the back, turned to a clean page, wrote the date, and began:
Los Angeles, Autumn 20—
I dreamed again. But this time it wasn't one of the crime scenes—the ones where I watch something kill kids who show up on the news the next day. The psychologist insists it's mass-hysteria fallout from the serial murders. This was different. Something came to warn me. And it isn't good. I'm worried about Grandpa, but I want to believe he's holed up in some strange country's ancient library, studying manuscripts, or analyzing a fresco in a forgotten church… who knows.
He set down his pen and slid the notebook back into the drawer. With a long sigh, he stood and undressed out of the school uniform—tie, white shirt, red vest, navy trousers; the matching jacket hung over the chair's back. He pulled on Star Wars pajama bottoms and a black T-shirt with Kylo Ren stamped across the chest—he was, needless to say, a fan.
He crawled into bed and lay staring up at the model ships, waiting for sleep to come. He raised his right arm, sighted along his index finger at the TIE fighter, thumb cocked like a blaster. He squinted one eye, "fired" twice, and whispered an explosion. Then he laced both hands behind his head and closed his eyes, listening to the rain drum harder on the wooden roof. Lightning flickered; he cracked an eye; thunder rolled; the downpour thickened.
"The storm has come," he murmured, and let his eyes fall shut, sinking swiftly into sleep.