Andrew Detmer stopped his pedaling and enjoyed the panoramic view of Laurelhust, whose luxurious classic-style homes glowed in the late afternoon sun. Despite having been raised in Seattle, whenever he passed through Laurelhust he felt out of place, as if every blade of the peaceful and green splendor of that neighborhood declared its animosity towards him. Of course, it was still a sensation like any other. He could binge at Jak's Grill or have a pizza at the Varlamos with the money he had now.

Andrew didn't have a particularly bright memory, but he knew Seattle as the palm of his hand and that had helped him in his first week as a home delivery man. For now, his boss was satisfied and no client had asked for the claim sheet. He knew, however, that his current circumstances were more important than his own worth as a worker; otherwise, he would not have signed the contract with such ease and would not have received copious tips from clients who felt sorry for his loss.

It was winter and Andrew enjoyed the cool breeze as he hadn't enjoyed anything in a while. His legs, tired of pedaling for hours, thanked the brief stop and resumed the march with renewed energies. He felt stronger.

After ten minutes the asphalt became irregular and the great variety of flora gave way to two rows of hedges located on both sides of the street. He was in the suburban neighborhood where he had grown up. Among all the low houses of unified design, Andrew's was one of the easiest to identify due to the neglected state of the garden, full of weeds and dead bushes due to lack of irrigation.

After ten minutes the asphalt became irregular and the great variety of flora gave way to two rows of hedges located on both sides of the street. He was in the suburban neighborhood where he had grown up. Among all the low houses of unified design, Andrew's was one of the easiest to identify due to the neglected state of the garden, full of weeds and dead bushes due to lack of irrigation.

He inserted the keys into the lock and opened the door (just a little to avoid unwanted glances from neighbors, as his father demanded). His cat Moxie received him rubbing against his legs. Andrew crouched down to stroke the cat between his brown ears and sharpened his ear. He heard nothing but a few canned laughs coming from the dining room, which was bathed in the grim light of the TV screen.

He was about to go straight up to his room when Moxie came across, demanding attention with a pitiful meow. He went back to the kitchen. As he supposed, his father had forgotten to change the food in the bowl. Andrew snorted.

He opened a drawer. Among other things, there were two cans of chicken with vegetables. There was also a half-empty beer can behind the bag of feed for sterilized cats. He took it, and after checking that it was cold, he left it immediately. It was better not to move it from the site.

He opened a can and poured the sticky contents into the bowl. Moxie began to eat gladly.

On the way to his room he found a second can of beer on a step. Andrew stuck to the side of the wall as if it were an explosive mine and continued the ascent to his room. Once inside he locked the door.

Andrew's room was the smallest in the house. On the walls, of a faded blue that was once cyan, hung a poster of a steampunk city and another of an abstract painting with acrylics of which he was particularly satisfied, although he ignored the meaning he wanted to give when he painted it. The jarring note in the typically teenage mess that reigned in the room was the bed, which was made. Lately he tried to do certain things in honor of his mother.

He opened a can and poured the sticky contents into the bowl. Moxie began to eat gladly.

On the way to his room he found a second can of beer on a step. Andrew stuck to the side of the wall as if it were an explosive mine and continued the ascent to his room. Once inside

Andrew's room was the smallest in the house. On the walls, of a faded blue that was once cyan, hung a poster of a steampunk city and another of an abstract painting with acrylics of which he was particularly satisfied, although he ignored the meaning he wanted to give when he painted it. The jarring note in the typically teenage mess that reigned in the room was the bed, which was made. Lately he tried to do certain things in honor of his mother.

She would also have wanted Andrew to go out more and coincidentally that day there was a party at Monica's house. It also happened that the hostess herself had invited him. Not that he had never been to a party like Foster and Hayes, but in the few he had attended, the entrance had been free. No one had bothered to invite him so far.

He took out the bundle of bills from the purse and counted the hundred and fifty dollars for the third time on the day. It was said that the first step to maturity was to enjoy the money earned by the work well done, and although Andrew tended to turn a deaf ear to any life advice, the truth is that he was delighting more than expected with the smooth touch of the banknotes

He was definitely going to that damn party. It was better to spend Saturday nights talking to real people instead of shooting artificial intelligences in the darkness of their room, right?

He rolled up the bills and thought about the place where he could hide them. Searching in a desk drawer he found the old Batman case he used in elementary school. He emptied the colored waxes inside, whose smell reminded him of his childhood. It was a daily scene of inadvertent happiness, in which his mother helped him choose school supplies. Remembering those golden days was as painful as looking directly at the sun.

The memories did not go further, because at that moment Andrew straightened to perceive a familiar sound. It was a cadenious noise that immediately associated with the slow displacement of leaden steps crawling on the plywood floor.

The crank slid, but the door did not yield.

"Andrew, open to me," a throaty voice commanded.

Andrew fell silent.

"I know you're there," his father bellowed. "I can hear you breathing like a fucking pig."

"You're drunk."

"What the fuck are you saying?"

It was not an insult, it only made his condition evident. For Andrew's father, however, that someone evidenced his reality was more offensive than the worst insult.

"Don't you dare talk like that to your father!" he shouted as he slammed into the door.

Taking advantage of the noise, Andrew returned the case to the desk drawer. Then he stood up and waited, his fists clenched. In his mind he set a limit of ten pushes: if he did exceed it, the door would fall apart.

His father stopped at the eighth push. Then he heard him ruminate a last insult and walked away. Andrew dropped into bed and was immediately overcome by the fatigue accumulated by work and tension. The dream beat him.