Page 197 of Disarm
“Damn,” I say. “Dr. K will never know how much I do for science.”
The cab fills with his laughter, and for a second, the bounce in his leg slows.
We pull up to the drop-off loop. Students are streaming toward buildings with backpacks and iced coffees, the whole campus buzzing with that late-semester mix of hope and dread.
Caleb unclicks his seatbelt but doesn’t move right away. His fingers tap out a rhythm against his knee.
“How loud is it?” I ask quietly.
We stole the metaphor straight out of his therapy session: the radio in his head, the one that plays “you don’t deserve this” on repeat.
He squints at the steering wheel, considering. “Like a… six?” he says finally. “Not full-on screamo, but not background elevator music either.”
“Okay,” I say. “Anything on the safety plan we can front-load before it cranks up?”
Huffing. “Look at you, Mr. Psychoeducation.”
“Answer the question, smartass.”
“I promised I’d eat real food before two,” he says, chewing on his lip. “Not just coffee and vibes. And… I told Dr. K I’d text you or Martin if I start getting that… ‘I should just disappear so I stop being a burden,’ feeling.”
My jaw tics, but I keep my tone even. “Cool,” I say. “I can work with that. What’s the food situation between now and your lab?”
He sighs. “I’ve got a protein bar and a banana,” he says. “And the dining hall if I’m not drowning.”
I narrow my eyes. “We both know ‘not drowning’ means ‘you already forgot to eat.’”
“Wow,” he mutters. “Stop reading me like a meter.”
“That’s literally my job,” I say. “Well, a job. The other one pays less.”
Smiling, all quick and crooked. “I’ll try,” he says. “With the food. I promise. I don’t want you—and Dr. K—to team up and bully me.”
“We bully you because we love you,” I say. “And because low blood sugar makes you feral.”
Caleb leans over the console for a kiss. It’s quick and soft, but he holds onto my jacket for half a second longer than usual.
“Love you,” he says quietly.
“Love you more,” I reply automatically. “Text me at lunch, yeah? Just like… a ‘brain volume check’ or whatever.”
That earns me a roll of his eyes like I’ve suggested a sticker chart. “Yes, Daddy.”
I swat at his ass as he climbs out, and he yelps, laughing. “Keep calling me Daddy and I’ll show you what a daddy does to a sassy little brat.”
Slamming the door shut and then flipping me off, I watch him jog up the path, backpack bouncing, his hair wild in the morning light.
Six, he said.
Not great.
Not catastrophic.
But the undertow is still there. I put the truck into gear and head for my first job of the day.
Work is busy,which is usually good for me. Busy means less time to sit in my own head replaying everything I’ve ever done wrong. Busy means outlets to fix, panels to rewire, and homeowners to reassure thatno, ma’am, your house is not about to spontaneously combust; it’s just an overloaded circuit.
Today’s first call is a small café downtown that“keeps losing power on half the lights.”
