under the same light

“Pass me the butter, will ya?”

“It's right in your face.”

He blinked. The butter winked back, an inch from his plate. He dunked the knife in, slathering his bread like it had done him wrong.

It made scraping sounds that clashed with the tall, steady voice of the newscaster blasting from the other room.

“...Heavy rain and thunderstorms expected tonight. Authorities advise staying indoors...”

“Finally, some rain in this fucking country,” said the man across from the boy — his brother. “Pass me the butter now, will ya?”

Rain dotted the windows, wind rattling the glass.

The boy's gaze fell on the small backpack lying on the floor: yellow and green gone gray with dirt, one cartoon patch half-peeled away…

Until his sister stepped in and tripped on the damn thing. 

“What the f–” She yelled, regaining balance. “What's this backpack doing here, freak? Get it out of the way!”

He froze mid-chew, looking up to find her eyes – slow, deliberate, cold. 

From the next room, the news boomed: 

“…The Field Museum in Chicago has reopened one day after the Egyptian garnet necklace worth over a quarter million dollars was stolen…”

Outside, thunder cracked the world in two.

“…The hunt is still on for the thieves, although evidence has been found at the scene…”

“Turn that shit off, mom.” The boy yelled. 

The kitchen light was too white. It cut his face into cold angles – too sharp for a teenager.

“Still here, boy? Thought you were waiting for someone.” The brother said, leaning back and cracking open a beer.

He slid one across to their sister, who slouched at the table. Now it was the three of them, orbiting under the same light.

“You going out in that rain?” She asked.

“Bobby is picking me up.” The boy said simply.

“And what this time?”

“Shut up. It’s not like that.” 

“Not like what? 

The two glared at each other.

“Not like none of your damn business.” 

A beat. 

“Let the boy be, Sirena,” the brother said, “He's just meeting those freak friends of his, probably has that loser deck of cards that costs more than rent stashed in that backpack of his… Prolly stashed some liquor too, didn't ya?” 

The smile he threw was sly, but it showed teeth.

Between them, the TV kept roaring. 

“...they strolled right through the front doors, in broad daylight…” The reporter was interviewing an officer now. “We believe they must've escaped by tucking the stolen pieces somewhere small and ordinary… … Professional work, clearly organized–”

“I said shut it off!”

Plat plat plat, rain hammered harder now.

“You sure your Bobby's coming? It's wet–”

“Shut. UP.” 

“Alright.” 

The boy stood, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. “Just tell Mom I’ll be late.”

Thunder answered. 

Then his brother.

“Alright.”

He stepped out into the rain.

Inside, the news rolled on…

“…We believe a group of at least three—”

But thunder clapped again right then, drowning out the rest.

And then the door was shut.