Mind Games

Ty gave thanks he’d packed up his beloved coffee machine, and that his boy accepted coffee came first.

“Fill it up!” Bray wiggled down to the floor.

“Gonna.”

As the coffee worked its hot, strong, black magic, Ty started to reach for a box of cereal. Then remembered the eggs his blue-eyed neighbor had provided, along with an amazing dinner, the flowers and candle on the little kitchen island.

He peeled a banana for Bray and Woof as a stopgap.

He could scramble eggs.

He supposed it was her love of baking that had convinced his granny to update her kitchen. Probably about a decade before, he calculated as he located a pan, but it had everything, including that little island where he knew she’d happily rolled out cookie dough.

Maybe it didn’t approach his big, shiny kitchen in Philadelphia, but no question its smaller size and scope better suited his just-on-the-high-side-of-mediocre cooking skills. Nearly all of those acquired A.B.

After Braydon.

He made toast, cutting Bray’s piece into triangles as preferred, added the eggs and a juice box.

By seven, Bray sat on the floor playing with his trucks, and Ty drank his second, more clarifying cup of coffee.

He started a list he titled:

WTF Needs Doing

Top of it, find a local pediatrician for Bray. Even if they only stayed through the summer, he needed a good doctor in case.

He’d need to at least research the local school in case they stayed longer.

A trip into town to buy fresh produce and all that—which meant a separate list.

He sure as hell needed to boost up the Wi-Fi and replace his granny’s ancient TV. The cell service worked fine, a happy surprise.

He needed to organize the house the way he and Bray needed it.

Music studio. Playroom.

While Bray played, he got up to wander the main floor again.

He could put the piano in the front room, but the dining room gave him more privacy. Next to the kid playing trucks on the kitchen floor, privacy equaled top priority.

He studied his granny’s overly formal dining room table, chairs, a kind of buffet, the half a million knickknacks on every surface.

He knew that set brought her a lot of pride, but he needed the space. Even if he could’ve snapped his fingers and added a studio to the house, he’d never find use in his lifestyle for the furniture, gone black over time and countless coats of shellac.

He’d donate it, he decided. She’d like that. She’d like knowing someone else used it, found pride in it.

Bray’s hand tugged on his.

“Go see doggie. Please!”

“I’ve got a lot to do around here today, pal.”

“Please!”

Bray wrapped his arms around Ty’s legs and shot up a look that could’ve melted the iceberg that took down the Titanic.

He had to take the basket back anyway. And maybe she knew something about where he could donate stuff, about a doctor, and half the things he didn’t know.