Page 42 of The Worst Possible Plan

“You were thinking it.”

“I was.” After twenty years of poker nights, we both knew exactly how this conversation went.

The cards slapped against the table. Beer bottles hissed open. Somebody reached for another slice of pizza before Dave could claim it first, earning himself a well-deserved glare. Normal. Exactly what I needed after the last two days. Familiar voices. Familiar insults. Familiar routines. Usually they managed to drown out whatever had happened during the week.

Mike dealt.

I glanced down. Ace. King. Nice. Any other night, the hand would’ve practically played itself.

Dave tossed in five dollars confidently, as though he’d never once believed folding was an acceptable life choice.

Dylan matched it without hesitation, absently wiping pizza grease off his fingers onto a paper napkin before reaching for his beer.

Curt raised, his expression never changing. The man had the same face whether he was announcing school closures, handing out detention, or bluffing everyone at the table.

I sighed and folded, tossing my cards faceup onto the table.

Nobody said anything.

At first.

Mike stopped halfway through taking a drink, the beer bottle hovering an inch from his mouth.

Dave slowly lowered his cards onto the table like he was afraid any sudden movement might spook me.

Dylan frowned, looking from me to my discarded hand and back again.

Curt blinked once behind his reading glasses.

The entire table went strangely quiet, the kind that usually preceded someone confessing to backing a truck into a mailbox.

“What?” I asked.

Mike leaned back in his chair, studying me over the top of his cards like I was evidence in an ongoing investigation. “You folded ace-king.”

“I did.”

“You always play ace-king.”

“I didn’t feel like it.” It sounded reasonable to me. I was the only one.

Nobody moved.

Dave looked at the others before slowly shaking his head. “I don’t like this.”

Dylan nodded solemnly, like we’d just received troubling medical news. “Me neither.” He looked genuinely concerned. “Should we be taking his temperature?”

Curt rubbed his chin, his principal face settling into place. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“I’m not sick.” At least I didn’t think I was. The looks around the table suggested nobody believed me.

Dave pointed his beer at me, his expression growing more suspicious by the second. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sitting right here.”