floating in a tin can

The day started like any other day; Lee was still asleep until noon, at which point they sent Michael a text reading ‘Ugh’ and later a rare selfie with messy bedhead and a mug of coffee as big as their head, face half-hidden behind giant sunglasses, captioned ‘Good morning ’. It was taken outside, which was good. Meant their paranoia hadn’t come back.

But around four o’clock a series of voicemails and text messages barraged Michael’s phone while he was in a meeting. 22 texts, 6 new voicemails, all from Kevin, the young mutant Lee had hired on to help around the shop despite not really needing the help. They were all a variation on the same theme: where the fuck are you? Answer your phone!

Kevin paced violently around the kitchen of Lee’s house, one bare hand clutching the petals of a daisy which withered and turned to ash. He hadn’t touched anything bare-handed in four months, not even to vent his anger. He never really came here, though Lee often invited him, and his very presence stuck out like an open wound. He whirled around when the door opened, the black coat he always wore from necessity swirling angrily around him, throwing his hands — one gloved, one not — into the air. “The fuck have you been? I've been calling all day! They took her!”