When I pushed the wood wider with my elbow, his shoulders jerked. A sharp metallic click echoed against the drywall of his bedroom.
Ethan slid a small brass key into his pocket and pulled his hands back to his lap, his fingers instantly tearing at the edge of a cardboard shoe box. He kept his head down, his neck turning a dark red under his hair.
“I have your clean t-shirts,” I said, setting the plastic basket on the corner of his unmade bed.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice flat and hesitant.
He did not look up from the cardboard box, his thumb working a loose corner of the packaging until a thin grey strip of paper peeled away.
“What was that sound, Ethan?” I asked, stepping closer to the desk.
“Nothing,” he said, his fingers moving faster against the cardboard. “Just school stuff.”
“You locked your desk drawer for school stuff?”
He shrugged, his shoulders tight. “Just organizing some things.”
