The walk to the middle of the small hut of a house had him already sweating. May as well exercise.

Every minute of cardiovascular activity  adds a minute to your life, that’s what Mr. Chem said. And every cigarette subtracts a minute. The man’s name hadn’t really been Mr. Chem. What had it been?

He unfurled the purple mat next to the silvery candle. He wondered if the smoke from the candle was as bad as cigarette smoke. He chuckled a little. Better exercise whenever I light it and keep everything even.

He brought the routine up from years of memory. Standing on the edge of the mat, reaching up and looking forward, he could see right out the middle window. It was centered on a leafless tree covered with birds. He knew it more than he saw it now in the dark. It was a cutout of pure solid black against the open, fluid black of the sky.

He stretched and turned. He could still see some of the tree and some of the birds from most angles. They didn’t move the whole time. He would have seen movement.

The birds were still unmoving as he was attempting to fry some toast on the little hot square.

He was mixing honey with butter. He looked to the hot square and swore silently. He lifted the burnt bit of toast, shrugged and spread the honey butter on it. When the butter was liquified, he flipped it and dunked it in the tub of cinnamon sugar.

There was a spring of shifting mattress and a cry of, "oooooh!!!!!"

Kris appeared, looking excitedly at the pile of cinnamon toast on the floral plate.

"Uh, hey," said Lac. "I hope you’re extra hungry. I think the burner is broken. This part here burns the crap out of everything."

"Oh, God. I forgot you put so much freaking cinnamon sugar. That’s a hazardous amount. You’re supposed to sprinkle it."

"Well, I figured, the burnt bit would be extra bitter."

Kris looked around suspiciously.

"Hey, Li’l trooper. Daddy burned some food so you’d better come appreciate it," Kris was announcing while pulling aside a curtain.

But the room was empty. The bed was technically made, but the cover was at least 20 degrees crooked.

Lac looked quickly at the bowl he had filled with honey butter.

"Oh. This was in the drying rack when I got to it," he said, thoughtfully.

"Ah, and I had put them all away before bed."

Kris strode purposefully from the kitchen and stepped into her shoes on the way out the door.

Lac spooned heaps of honey butter onto raw bread and bit into it while wiping up the smattering of sugar and cinnamon all over the counter. He saw Kris dash past every window.

Then she was at his side again, biting into the burnt toast.

Lac put away the sugar. He finished rinsing and wiping the hot square.

"How can you even taste the honey butter with all this sugar?" She said, but still ate the toast and smiled with genuine gratitude. He smiled back and swept the sugar from the floor.

They both looked out the window as they ate, checking the roads in each direction.

"Did you ever get up that early?" Kris asked.

"For sports."

"Me either. "

"What’s that up there?"

There was a figure rising atop the hill at the end of the street.

They both moved for the door, still holding their toast. Kri was amazingly eating her toast, getting her shoes back one, getting out the door and saying, "Oh no, what if duty starts today and we don’t even know where--"

The child on a bike reached the highest point on the hill and start coasting down. Kri and Lac made it to their post at the edge of their walkway.

The child on the bike stuck out one hand holding an oversized envelope. The whole arm wobbled a little in the turbulence of zooming downhill.

Lac clamped his hand shut on the envelope as it arrived. It was passed off smoothly.

"Thanks, Bran-Bran, uh. Have you seen--"

But Bran was a streak of color speeding away and didn’t look back.

"That’s some dangerous hill. I’m still not convinced they need to do it by hand when we’ve got mailboxes."

"I can’t say I agree with the committee. Only that they insist on their quirks," she finished by biting hard on her lip.

He unfolded the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, not even with a sticker. s

"Heh. Quirks." He exhaled angrily. "Sending assignments like telegrams or something."

"Oh," he said, sliding the card out. "It’s not the duty roster."

They walked back in the house and to the kitchen counter in silence. Her hand pressed its way to her lip even harder than she had been biting.

They stood and stared at the card on the counter for unknown amounts of time. He looked around for a third party to receive his joke, but it was still  early in the morning. Then he remembered those birds. They were knobby knuckles on that tree. 

He turned to the birds on the tree and said, "Well, I guess I won a bet. I didn’t get to retire after all."

One or maybe two birds flapped away.

Tears rolled freely.

"Yeah, you go tell Mike and you go tell Matt they both spoke too soon. Heh. And they owe me, uh, a pint."

He raised his hands to start wiping at his face. She was swiping her sleeves along her eyes.

"Tough crowd, huh?" and that was the last thing anyone said for at least three hours. 

Next Chapter: The Pull