I scooped yellow rice and baked chicken onto two blue stoneware plates. The steam rose between us, thin and smelling of thyme and black pepper, but the room felt too quiet.
“Do we have to go to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving?” Kobe asked. He did not look at me, his eyes fixed on the faucet.
“We have three weeks to decide that,” I said, setting his water glass down with a soft click. “Why do you ask?”
“Sailor said if we don’t go, Uncle Gage is going to take away her new video game system because we ruined her weekend and she needs the console to play with her friends at school and she won’t have any fun if we stay home.” He spoke in a rapid, breathless rush, the words tumbling out without a pause for air, before he went completely silent.
He folded his hands over his ears, pressing his palms flat against his temples, staring down at his untouched rice.
My thumb traced the silver bezel of my wristwatch, turning it twice around my wrist. The technical term for his response was sensory overload, a predictable reaction to the acoustic stress of the fire alarm and the social tension of the ride home.
