Rory stayed upstairs as long as he could. He could hear the morning rhythm building below, the clatter of pans and crockery, Abbey chattering about something for school, Liz's voice rising and dipping as she moved between rooms. He sat on the edge of his bed, picking at the skin around his fingernails, worrying at the little hangnails without really noticing, listening for the front door, waiting for the moment they'd leave without him. If he was quiet enough, maybe Pete would forget he was even there.

  It almost worked.

  "Rory!" Pete's voice cut up the stairwell, sharp and direct.

  Rory froze, stomach tightening. He stared at his closed bedroom door, hoping for a second call, something softer, maybe Liz instead. But the silence that followed was worse. Heavy. Expectant.

  With a slow breath, he stood and let his gaze linger on the floorboards, stalling. His ribs ached as he straightened. He dragged his feet toward the hall, every step reluctant.

  "Downstairs," Pete barked again, and this time it wasn't a request.

  Rory hovered at the top of the stairs, hand on the rail, before finally descending. The boards creaked under his weight, announcing him whether he wanted them to or not.

  When he reached the kitchen, everyone was already in motion, Liz packing up lunchboxes, Abbey tugging her socks on by the door, Pete by the counter adjusting his tie. Rory thought for a second he might get away with blending into the background. But Pete's eyes found him immediately.

  "Rory." Pete didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

  Rory stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Yeah."

  "Come here a sec."

  Pete tapped the fridge. Beside the usual list was a second page, blocky handwriting. He tapped it like a foreman pointing out a blueprint.

  "Suspension isn't a holiday." He said as he want back to his tie, looping it before he cinched it, eyes on Rory. "Bathroom, proper clean, not a wipe. Shower screen, grout, mirror, the works. Vacuum the whole place. Edges. Under the couch. Bins out. Recycling's full."

  Rory nodded. "Okay."

  "Garden's a mess. Grass is too long near the fence. Whipper snip first so you don't butcher it. Don't touch the hedges."

  "Okay."

  "I want the skirting boards wiped." He said it like a punishment disguised as detail. "Use the sugar soap. Not just water."

  Rory stood still. "Okay."

  "No mates over." Pete's eyes flicked to Abbey, who was watching the exchange in silence. "Don't leave the house unless it's to take the bins out. Phone stays in the cupboard until you've finished the list." He held out his hand. "You're not going to 'forget' while you scroll."

  Rory pulled the phone from his pocket and placed it in Pete's palm. Without another word, Pete crossed to the cupboard, opened it, and slid the phone inside before shutting the door with a firm click.

  Liz cleared her throat, light. "There's leftover curry in the fridge. Heat it in a bowl, not the pot. The blue sponge is for dishes, not the bathroom. The green one is bathroom."

  "Got it," Rory said.

  Pete stepped closer. The aftershave was strong today. "And eat something that isn't junk." He tapped the cereal bowl that was sitting on the kitchen table with a knuckle. "You need protein. There's eggs."

  "I'm fine."

  "That wasn't a question." Pete's mouth tipped into something like a smile, wrong at the edges. "Make eggs."

  Abbey's voice piped up from where she sat at the table. "Why isn't Rory going to school?"

  The question hung in the air. Rory felt his chest tighten, heat rising to his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the counter, wishing the floor would open and swallow him whole.

  Pete didn't miss a beat. "Because he's an idiot," he said, blunt and sharp, like a slap.

  At the same time Liz rushed in, voice gentler but just as loaded. "Because he got in trouble."

  Rory's stomach knotted. He hated how the two answers collided, leaving him stranded in the middle.

  Abbey blinked at them all, confused. "What did he do?"

  "Nothing," Liz said quickly, her eyes flicking to Rory with something that looked almost apologetic. He could hear the edge of urgency under her tone, the kind that was meant to shield, not accuse.

  Abbey frowned. "He must've done something."

  Pete waved a hand, dismissive. "He mucked around, that's all."

  Abbey leaned forward, curious in that innocent way kids could be. "If I muck around, do I get to stay home too?"

  "No," Pete and Liz snapped at the same time, the word ringing through the room like a gavel.

  Liz softened almost instantly, her gaze warm as she reached out to tuck a strand of Abbey's hair behind her ear. "You're a good girl, Abbey. Don't follow Rory's mistakes, alright?" She glanced at Rory again, her expression almost pained, like she was sorry for saying it but couldn't risk giving Abbey the wrong impression.

  Pete folded his arms, his attention snapping back to Rory. His stare was hard, calculated. "And Rory's not going to muck around anymore, is he?"

  The silence pressed in. Rory swallowed, forcing the word out low and flat. "No."

  Pete gave a satisfied nod, as if the matter were settled. But Rory felt the echo of it stick in his throat like a stone.

  Liz stood, snagging the car keys. "We're going to be late." She touched Rory's arm as she passed, quick and gentle. "Have a good day. Text me if you need anything."

  Abbey grabbed her bag and went straight to Rory, wrapping her arms around his middle. She tipped her head back to look up at him. "I wish I could stay home with you."

  Rory hugged her back without hesitation, holding her close for a moment. The words tugged at him, even if he managed a small smile. "Abs, I'm doing chores all day. It's not going to be fun."

  She wrinkled her nose, unconvinced. "Still better than maths."

  "Come on, Abs, we'll be late," Liz urged gently, ushering her toward the door.

  Abbey looked back at Rory from the threshold. "Bye, Rory!" she called brightly, giving a little wave.

  "See you this afternoon, love," Liz added, her tone soft but firm, like she was trying to balance both sides at once.

  Pete didn't say a word. He just pulled the door open, waited for them to step out, and shut it behind him with a solid click.

  The house fell into stillness, so quiet it rang in Rory's ears. He stood there with his hand on the edge of the bench. No eyes. No orders. No careful smiles.

  It didn't land like relief. The rooms stretched, like a hallway that wouldn't end. The ceiling looked higher. The doorway to the lounge looked two sizes bigger. Even the closed study door felt like a person in the room, silent, watching.

  He lifted the list off the fridge, skimming the chores before laying it down on the kitchen bench. His eyes drifted to the lounge room, the couch practically calling to him. For a beat he imagined collapsing into it, just letting the silence swallow him. The list sat there between him and the thought, every unchecked line a reminder of Pete's rules, of the fights that came too easy.

  His jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance sparking, he hated how even a scrap of paper could box him in. Then the spark dulled, settling into the usual weight of knowing it wasn't worth it.

  He made eggs because not making them felt like picking a fight with a ghost. The pan hissed. He ate standing up, leaning on the bench, the fork scraping ceramic, each scrape too loud. When he washed the plate, he found himself using the blue sponge and then swapped it for the green one just to be correct, even though it didn't matter.

  He took the list off the counter and read it again. If he followed them, the day would move. If he didn't, the house might swallow him whole.

  Bathroom first.

  He hauled the cleaning supplies into the room and set them down, then flicked on the fan. The steady drone helped, but not enough. After a moment he drifted back down the hall to his room and pulled open the drawer of his bedside table. The old iPod sat there where it always did, his sister 's, Rook, once, now his.

  He turned it over in his hand, the scuffed casing cool against his palm. It wasn't much, but it was something. A reminder that even if his family weren't here, he still had this piece of her, of them. Music had always been a way out, a door he could slip through when the walls pressed in too tight.

  He pushed the headphones into his ears, thumbed through the cracked playlist until it started to play, and slipped the iPod into his pocket. The music settled around him like a shield as he went back to the bathroom, the fan's drone fading under the rhythm in his head.

  He scrubbed the shower screen until his shoulder burned, wiped the mirror until his face doubled in the streaks. He knelt to get the grout lines and his ribs pressed against his shirt and reminded him of last night. He sat back on his heels and breathed and waited for the throb to ebb.

  Vacuuming came next. He pulled the couch out and found a pencil, a coin, a hair tie of Abbey's. He pocketed the coin and left the hair tie on the coffee table like proof he'd noticed.

  By midday, the list had pencil ticks down one side. He stood in the kitchen again with a glass of water and the quiet pressed closer, curious. He told himself he could relax now, lie on the couch, scroll, maybe nap. He set the glass down and waited for the feeling to arrive.

  It didn't.

  He drifted to the back door and pulled it open. The garden smell rolled in. cut grass from a neighbour's yard, sun on dirt. For a long minute he just stood there with the screen door between him and outside, like a kid waiting for permission that would never come.

  Finally, he stepped through. The garden was small, ordinary, in need of the mower. He knew he should get started, drag out the whipper snipper, run the lines along the edges, but his gaze caught on the far corner. The brick wall sat half-hidden by the overgrown tree and its tangle of bushes, shadows pooling there like it was holding a secret.

  Rory sighed and crossed the grass, crouching in the corner. His fingers found the familiar loose brick. He pulled it free and reached into the gap, drawing out a crumpled plastic bag. Inside: papers, lighter, the small stash he'd kept tucked away.

  He sat back against the wall, knees bent, and worked the paper and leaf together, the motions automatic, worn smooth with habit. The paper stuck once, then smoothed under his thumb. A flick of the lighter, a flare, and the first curl of smoke drifted up, harsh, familiar, almost comforting. He drew it in, holding, letting the knot in his chest loosen by degrees.

  The grass could wait. He told himself he'd get to it after. He let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes, music still trickling from the iPod in his pocket, smoke curling past his lips. For the first time all day, the house and its rules felt far away. Out here, with the sun on his skin and the buzz in his veins, the world wasn't so sharp. It was blurred, softened, just enough to breathe.

  ***

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Ethan sat hunched over his desk in the low light, sleeves rolled back, eyes burning from hours of cross-referencing Caleb's intel. Tabs littered his screen, shipping manifests, redacted clearance logs, cross-mapped coordinates. In the margins of a notepad, he'd started sketching shapes that weren't quite plans yet.

  He rubbed his eyes, pen between his teeth, when a knock on the doorframe broke the quiet. Will leaned there, arms crossed, watching him.

  "Still at it?"

  "Yeah." Ethan didn't look up.

  Will stepped inside, exasperation written across his face. "You're not letting this go, are you?"

  "No."

  Will sighed, rubbing his jaw. "It's not like you can pull answers out of thin air, Ethan. This is going to take time."

  Before Ethan could answer, a voice rang up from downstairs, too sharp to be coincidence.

  "Not for me!"

  Ethan smirked despite himself, while Will's expression darkened. "What did we tell you about respecting people's privacy?" Will shouted toward the staircase, his annoyance clear.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs before Owen appeared in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear.

  "You said I can read anyone's but yours," he replied, his grin mischievous.

  "And what are you doing now?" Will asked, voice strained with irritation.

  "Well," Owen said with a sly shrug, "just think...when Ethan gets his implant, you won't be the only one I can read in this house anymore."

  "Finally, a silver lining," Will replied, his smile sharp and sarcastic. "Truly, this is what I've been waiting for."

  "Owen," Ethan warned, but the boy was already moving into the room.

  He dropped a small implant in a clear case onto Ethan's desk with a muted clink. Beside it, a folded piece of paper.

  Ethan's pen stilled. "What's this?"

  "The best you're going to get," Owen said, leaning on the desk. Smirk tugging at his mouth, he tapped the paper. "Safe, good quality. Not the hacks you've been thinking about. And that? That's a contact. Clinic with a decent rep. Better than any dive Caleb's files will point you toward."

  Ethan picked up the case, eyes sharp. "How did you..." He stopped, suspicion flashing. "You shouldn't know about this-"

  "Will was thinking it super loud," Owen said with mock innocence. "I couldn't miss it."

  "Owen..." Ethan's tone shifted, sharper now. "You can't just look into people's heads without their permission."

  "I can't always help it!" Owen protested, throwing up his hands. "Will was basically throwing it at me."

  Will groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Ethan studied the kid, voice low. "Then we need to work on that. Control. Boundaries."

  He unfolded the paper. A name. A number. A clinic. His brow furrowed. "How did you even find this?"

  Owen grinned, smug. "You're always telling me to dig deep."

  Ethan stared at him, realisation settling heavy.

  "You know how long it took Caleb to find and vet intel on this one place?" Ethan asked.

  "Yeah, well," Owen shot back, "he should get himself a technopath."

  Ethan arched an eyebrow. "He did. He has a team of them."

  "Then he should get himself some good ones."

  Despite himself, Ethan huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. He looked down at the note again, thumb pressing against the paper. His voice lowered. "You shouldn't be involved in this. You're fifteen. You're not supposed to be-" He broke off, jaw tight, words catching before they could land.

  "Fifteen and keeping you from screwing yourself over," Owen said, unflinching. "You'd have ended up in some chop shop with a saw blade and half a clue. This one's clean. The contact's solid. It's the safest option you're going to get."

  Ethan wanted to argue, but the truth sat in front of him in black ink. The fight drained out of his shoulders. He turned the paper once more, looking for flaws. None. With a slow exhale, he folded it neatly and slid it into his pocket. The weight settled there, sharp and dangerous.

  His gaze returned to Owen. "And I thought you were terrifying when all you could do was peel a room apart for scrap."

  Owen's grin widened. "Please. I can still do that if I wanted."

  For a moment, Ethan almost smiled, but the edge never reached his eyes. He studied him, not a boy anymore, not really, and felt the unease prickle sharper. Owen wasn't just hijacking vending machines or peeling wires out of walls. He was pulling intel straight from people's heads, finding clinics Caleb's team had spent weeks chasing.

  Ethan leaned back in his chair, silent, the rare flicker of doubt cutting through his composure. How much more can he do that I don't even see?

  Owen, either oblivious or enjoying the effect, rocked back on his heels, smug as ever.

  Ethan shook his head, turning back to the glow of his monitors, but the thought clung to him. He pressed his palm against the pocket where the note rested, the paper's edge sharp against his fingers, and wondered which of them had just stepped further over the line.

  ***

  By Thursday, Rory's week had stretched thin, the list on the fridge changing but never shrinking, if anything, it grew.

  The bathroom and vacuuming were only the start. Tuesday, Pete had left a note about scrubbing the laundry sink and re-oiling the cutting boards. Wednesday it was cleaning the windows, inside and out, until Rory's shoulders ached from reaching the frames. Thursday morning, new instructions waited: pull weeds from the garden beds, sweep the driveway, wipe down every cupboard door in the kitchen.

  It wasn't just chores, it was the sense Pete was inventing jobs to keep him busy. Dusting vents, polishing the taps, reorganising the shelves in the linen cupboard. None of it mattered, not really, but it filled the hours and left Rory too drained to think.

  Avoiding Pete had become its own job. Some days Rory managed it, staying upstairs until late, timing trips to the bathroom around Pete's movements, slipping the phone out of the cupboard when the house was empty and sliding it back before they returned. He never kept it overnight. That risk wasn't worth it.

  But even during the day, there were no guarantees. Once, halfway through the week, Pete came home for lunch without warning. Rory had thought at first it was just to check up on him, to catch him out on the chores. But it wasn't the usual Pete, the one with lists and rules, sharp edges and clipped words. This version had been different in a way that left Rory colder, unsettled. He'd gone back to scrubbing and vacuuming twice as hard that afternoon, desperate just to keep the air moving. After that, every sound of tyres slowing on the street made his stomach knot. Suspension wasn't just grounding anymore, it was waiting for the door to open, not knowing which Pete might walk in.

  By Wednesday he'd already burned through his stash. The corner brick hid nothing now but dust. Desperation had driven him back inside, where he stole careful swallows from Liz's vodka and gin, bottles she drank from and topped up often enough not to notice a shift. A little was all it took to haze the day, to keep the silence from gnawing at him.

  Nights dragged worst of all. He'd lie on his bed staring at the ceiling, the ache of the day's jobs still in his arms, the air too still. Without his phone, there was no easy distraction. He settled for the iPod instead, the cracked playlist looping until sleep finally pulled him under.

  The monotony had sunk deep. The chores blurred together, the hours dragged like weights, and even the thought of Friday felt hollow. Suspension was supposed to end eventually, but the week had already proven one thing: the house was too small when you couldn't leave it, and too loud even in its silence.

  That afternoon, Rory was on his knees in the hallway, rag in hand, wiping down the skirting boards just like Pete had demanded. The sugar soap left his fingers tacky, the faint chemical bite in his nose. He shifted to the next section, music low in his ears, trying not to think about how endless the house felt.

  That was when he heard it. A sound that didn't belong.

  Not the fridge hum, not the muffled creak of the ceiling. A faint shuffle. Wood sliding. A drawer.

  Rory pulled one earbud free, holding still. For a long moment, silence pressed close, and he thought maybe he'd imagined it. Then came another sound, paper shifting, a desk chair creaking.

  It was coming from Pete's office.

  Rory's stomach tightened. He pushed to his feet, wiping his hand against his jeans, and stood in the hall listening. The office door was half-shut, the sliver of shadow inside broken by movement. Someone was in there.

  For a flicker he thought Pete had come home again, another attempt to catch Rory out. But the rhythm was wrong, less controlled, less careful. Whoever it was wasn't supposed to be there.

  Rory edged closer, heart thudding. He pressed his shoulder lightly to the wall by the doorway and leaned just enough to see.

  Not Pete.

  Nick.

  His older brother, crouched at the desk like he owned the place, rifling through drawers and shuffling papers with the same cocky impatience he'd always carried.

  Rory's stomach dropped then tightened again, not in fear but in fury. He hadn't seen Nick in four years, not since the night he stormed out, ran from this house, and never once called or bothered to check in. And now here he was, breaking in with his own keys, like he could just walk back into their lives and start taking what he wanted.

  Rory's throat was dry, rag still balled in his fist, but the thought that cut through sharpest wasn't shock. It was anger. What the hell was Nick doing here now?

  Rory stepped into the doorway before he could talk himself out of it.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Nick jerked, the folder in his hands snapping shut. For a second he looked ready to bolt, then his eyes focused and the edge of surprise softened into something sharper. A grin.

  "Well, look who it is." His voice was the same, smooth, cocky, like the last two years hadn't happened. "Didn't think you'd be home."

  "I'm suspended," Rory snapped, his jaw tight. "You'd know that if you actually gave a shit."

  Nick tilted his head, that grin not budging. "Four years and that's your opener? No 'hey, good to see you,' no hug?"

  "You ran off and didn't bother contacting me once," Rory shot back. "Why the hell would I hug you?"

  "Nice to see you too, little brother."

  Rory's jaw clenched. "Don't call me that."

  Nick didn't flinch. He leaned back on his heels, folder still in hand, like he had all the time in the world. "Relax. Just looking for something."

  "In Pete's office? While he's at work?" Rory shot back, voice sharp. "You vanish for two years, don't even text, and this is how you show up? Letting yourself in and digging through his shit?"

  Nick's grin widened. He dangled a set of keys between two fingers before slipping them back into his pocket. "Didn't break in. I've still got my set."

  That made Rory's blood flare hotter. "So what? That doesn't give you the right. You left. You don't live here anymore."

  Nick shrugged, infuriatingly casual. "Door still opens, doesn't it?"

  Rory stared at him, blood hot. "You shouldn't be here."

  "Neither should you, if we're keeping score," Nick said smoothly, his eyes flicking to the rag in Rory's hand, the faint smell of cleaning solution still clinging to him. "Suspended, huh? Figures."

  He drifted around the desk until he was standing closer, his gaze sweeping across Rory's face. The bruises were obvious, mottled colour along his cheekbone. Nick's jaw tightened. "I see Pete's still a massive prick." He reached out, hand lifting toward the bruise. Rory swatted him away.

  "Seriously, what are you doing here, Nick?"

  Nick sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Okay, fine. I'll cut to the chase. I need something. Something of Dad's."

  Rory frowned. "Dad's? What are you talking about?"

  "Notes. Files. Hard drives. Anything he left behind," Nick said quickly, the casual mask slipping into urgency. "You haven't come across anything of his, have you?"

  "No," Rory said slowly. "Why would I? Pete got rid of most of that stuff when Mum left."

  Nick's jaw tightened, frustration sharpening his features. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I'm pretty sure."

  Nick's eyes flicked to the box of files on the desk, then back to Rory. He stepped closer, his tone softening like he was trying to coax him. "Look, Rory, this is important. If there's even a chance something of Dad's is still here, I need you to find it for me."

  Rory hesitated, unease crawling under his skin. "Why? What's so important about it?"

  Nick opened his mouth like he was about to spill everything, but then stopped. His expression shifted, a smile tugging at his mouth that never touched his eyes. "It's just... family stuff. You wouldn't understand."

  Rory scoffed. "Am I not family? Try me."

  Nick let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging. "I don't have time to explain right now. Just... trust me, okay? If you find anything...anything labeled 'Parity', let me know."

  "Parity?" Rory repeated, suspicion sharpening.

  "It's nothing," Nick said too quickly. He searched for the right words, then settled on half a lie. "Just something I'm working on."

  Rory studied him. "Is everything okay, Nick?"

  Nick's lips twitched into a lopsided grin, but it sat wrong, uneasy in his eyes. "Yeah. It's fine. I just need you to do this for me, okay?"

  Rory's arms folded tight across his chest. "Even if I wanted to help, which I don't, I wouldn't know where to look."

  Nick tilted his head, studying him. "You've been stuck in this house all week. You know the place better than anyone. If there's a box tucked away somewhere, you'd find it before Pete ever would."

  Rory shook his head. "Not my problem."

  "Rory." Nick's voice dropped, coaxing. "It's Dad's stuff. Don't you care?"

  The words hit like a jab. Rory's jaw tightened. "You don't get to play that card. You took off. You didn't care enough to stick around."

  For a moment, Nick's mask slipped, irritation flashing in his eyes. Then he smoothed it over, forcing a smile. "Fair. I screwed up. But this... this is different. It's important."

  Nick's mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Come on. You owe me."

  Rory's glare sharpened. "No, I don't."

  Nick leaned in a little, tone lazy but pointed. "How many nights did I let you sleep in my room so you didn't have to deal with Pete? How many times did I take the hits so you didn't have to?"

  The words landed hard. Heat crept up Rory's neck, shame burning under his skin. He hated that Nick could still drag those nights into the light, nights where he'd been too small, too scared, grateful for Nick's door cracked open.

  "Sure," Rory bit back, voice low and sharp. "Until you didn't."

  Something flickered in Nick's eyes, but he shrugged it off, infuriatingly casual. "You know you can leave too, right? You don't have to stay here."

  The words landed like a stone in Rory's chest. He shifted his weight, the rag clammy in his hand, not trusting himself to answer.

  Nick saw the hesitation and pressed, his voice dropping smoother, coaxing. "I can get you what you need to make it easier. To make it feel better. You don't have to keep grinding through this place empty-handed. Just help me out, and I'll look after you."

  Rory clenched his jaw, caught between the pull of old loyalties and the anger of knowing exactly how Nick had left him behind. The offer hung there, sour and tempting all at once.

  Nick's smile curved sharper. "I'll get you whatever you want. Whatever you need. I'll pay."

  Rory folded his arms, glare locked on him. He said nothing, but the silence stretched too long, and Nick saw it, the flicker that wasn't just anger.

  Nick pressed, voice smooth. "Come on. You'd even have enough to sell if you wanted. Scrape together some cash, finally get yourself out of here. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

  Rory's ribs ached from the week's grind. Every word landed heavier than he wanted to admit. He let out a sharp huff. "Fine. I'll look. But not hard, and I'm not promising anything."

  Relief lit Nick's face, sudden and boyish. "Thank you, little brother." He grabbed Rory's arms with both hands, gripping tight.

  Rory scowled, pulling free. Curiosity stirred despite himself, why was Nick so desperate? He shoved his hands off, but Nick didn't back away. He stayed close, smiling wide, eyes ticking like gears behind the mask.

  Rory frowned. "Nick? You good?"

  Nick's grin didn't slip. His arms moved fast, wrapping Rory in a sudden half-embrace, one hand sliding to the back of his neck. Fingers pressed hard into the nape, probing, like he was searching for something under the skin.

  Rory flinched, jerking back. "What the fuck, Nick?"

  Nick froze, eyes wide for a beat before he pulled his hand away, forcing a crooked laugh. "Sorry. That was... weird. Just missed you, is all."

  Rory rubbed his neck, wary. "You missed me?"

  "Sure." Nick's answer was flat, unconvincing. He was already digging into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He unlocked it and held it out. "Give me your number."

  Rory blinked. "You don't have it?"

  Nick paused just a second too long, then recovered. "Lost my last phone. Put it in. I'll text you my address. Come by next Tuesday. Gives you plenty of time to find something. I'll sort you out."

  "I have school."

  Nick gave him a look, sharp, obvious. "So skip. One day won't kill you."

  Rory huffed, snatched the phone, and punched in his number. Shoving it back into Nick's hand, he fixed him with a hard look. "You promise you'll hook me up?"

  Nick's face split into a beam, triumphant. "Of course, little brother."

  "Even if I don't find anything?"

  Nick's grin held, though his eyes were restless. "Even then. Just for trying."