Page 223 of Disarm
“Not as much as they’d love my funeral,” I say. “Go get me the lockout tags. I’m not trusting this bitch.”
By the time we finish, my shoulders ache, there’s fiberglass in my hair, and my boss has given us the safety lecture twice.
“Protocols exist for a reason, Veracruz,” he says, pointing a thick finger at me. “No trusting labels. Youalwaysconfirm. I don’t want your mom suing my ass because you cooked yourself like a tamale.”
“Noted,” I say, swallowing the spike of guilt that hits every time someone mentions my family in the same breath as me dying. “It won’t happen again.”
He grunts. “Good. Go grab lunch, then head to the duplex on Mission. They’ve got a flickering bathroom light and a mysterious burning smell. Your favorite combo.”
“Can’t wait,” I deadpan.
The café lineis long and slow. I’m sweaty, hungry, and more rattled than I want to admit. My phone’s been on Do Not Disturb in my pocket since the attic, per company policy.
When I finally grab my sandwich and step outside, the ocean wind hits my face like a blessing. I flip my phone over.
Five messages.
Two from Mom, pictures of some stew she’s “experimenting” with. One from the group chat with Benny and the guys, a meme about OSHA violations.
And two from Caleb.
Caleb 11:07 A.M.
My brain is being a dick today.
It’s 1:26.
Guilt punches me in the gut. I scroll down.
Caleb
Do you ever wish you could just… pause? Like, stop existing for a little bit and then pick up again when everything’s less heavy.
That one’s at 11:32.
The air feels thinner. I lean against the side of my truck, thumb hovering while my brain tries to decide how bad this is on the internal Richter scale. We’ve been talking about not treating every wobble like a five-alarm fire. Dr. Ortega’s voice ghosts through my head.
“If you jump to DEFCON 1 every time he sighs, you’ll both burn out. Look at patterns. Look at behavior over time. Believe him when he says, ‘I’m okay but struggling,’ until his actions tell you otherwise.”
Caleb’s been… okay-ish. Exam week. Psych lecture from hell. Nightmares. He told me the headline version last night. He’s eating. He’s going to therapy. We’re talking.
Also, let's be real, I just nearly got zapped into the afterlife. My nervous system is not exactly a reliable narrator right now.
I take a breath.
In for four.
Hold.
Out.
Okay.
“Brain being a dick” is standard Caleb vocabulary. “Pause existing” is… not great, but not “I’m done,” either. It sounds like “I’m exhausted, please God, let me get off the ride for a minute,” which, fucking same.
Miguel
Just saw this. I was crawling around in an attic, trying not to get turned into chicharrón. I’m sorry your brain’s being an asshole. We can pause this weekend, yeah? Movie marathon, no alarms, all the carbs. You, me, the couch, and blackout curtains.
