The fading amber light of late afternoon filtered through lace curtains in the living room, illuminating dust motes dancing above Sam's research notes sprawled across the oak coffee table. He sat cross-legged on the rug, spine straight, thumb skimming the spine of a Latin bestiary cracked open beside a half-drunk mug of herbal tea. First year without salt lines on the windows. First year with parent-teacher conferences. His knee bounced beneath the table, jostling a highlighter that rolled into a stack of college brochures.

"You're really signing up for PTA meetings instead of salt-and-burns?" Dean had smirked last month, polishing his favorite blade at the bunker's map table. Sam's pen had frozen mid-sentence on the permission slip. "Someone's got to be the grownup," he'd retorted, sharper than intended. The memory made him rub the bridge of his nose now, the ghost of his brother's laughter mixing with the ticking grandfather clock.

3:58 PM glowed on the microwave. School ended at 3:30. Six blocks - twelve minutes at a teenager's pace. His finger traced the walking route on the city map pinned under a selenite paperweight. Construction on Elm? Mrs. Henderson's terrier loose again? The hunter's calculus of threats now measured in traffic patterns and unleashed pets. He stood abruptly, six-foot-four frame casting a shadow over the abandoned research.

In the kitchen, washed carrots and kale waited on the cutting board beside a dog-eared Vegetarian Weekly cookbook. Sam methodically diced vegetables, the rhythm steadying. Chickpea curry. Your favorite. Extra cilantro. The knife stilled. Is cilantro still your favorite? The question lodged in his throat like a hex bag. He opened the fridge - hummus, almond milk, three colors of bell peppers arranged by hue. Normalcy stocked in airtight containers.

The living room bookshelf caught his eye - mismatched titles on Mesopotamian demons brushing against yearbooks and SAT prep guides. His palm hovered over the silver flask in his jacket pocket. Not since the adoption. He grabbed his stress ball instead, squeezing as he paced past the framed diploma from his online law degree gathering dust by the stairs. Tock. Tock. Tock. The clock's pendulum swung like a metronome counting down catastrophe.

A key jiggled in the front door. Sam's shoulders dropped half an inch before he consciously straightened them. Observe without staring. He pretended to study the curry recipe as sneakers scuffed the welcome mat. Hazel eyes flicked upward, cataloging - no mud stains, backpack straps even, breathing steady.

"Hey champ," he said, voice carefully light, fingers whitening around the wooden spoon. "Mrs. Carter mention anything about extending the Whitman essay deadline?" Too specific. Backtrack. He cleared his throat, pushing long hair behind one ear. "Dinner's almost ready. There's, uh - kale chips. If you want." The corner of his mouth twitched upward, tentative as a warding sigil drawn in chalk.