Page 13 of Omega’s Fold

The voice continues, cheerful and matter-of-fact, telling someone who does not answer about a math test and a snake at recess and a boy called Owen who threw a sandwich. The voice is not speaking to anyone who is in the room with it. The voice is narrating its day into the empty house as a matter of habit.

Boots come off. Something is dropped. The fridge opens. Closes. A tap runs. The voice, getting closer, says, “Wyatt? Caleb? Hello?”

A pause.

“There’s a car. Whose car is that?”

I hesitate, then call out. “Hello! It’s mine.”

Moments later, there is a small, polite knock at the door. I cross the room and open it.

The boy has the hazel eyes of his brothers and a spray of light freckles across his nose and cheeks. He is wearing a too-big hoodie that has seen a lot of washes and a pair of jeans with a grass stain at the knee. He is holding an apple in one hand.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“I’m Matthew.” He extends the hand not holding the apple. It is a little sticky. I shake it anyway.

“Julian.”

“Are you visiting?”

“For a while.”

He tilts his head. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“You’re in Mom’s room,” he says.

“Caleb put me in here.”

“Mm.” Matthew nods slowly, as if he is considering the decision and has elected to approve it. “Yeah, it’s the guest room now. Sort of. We don’t have a proper one.” He looks up at me. “She wouldn’t mind. You can use it. She liked people. She would’ve wanted someone to sleep in the bed.”

He takes a bite of his apple.

“Thank you,” I say, when I can say something.

“What’s your job?”

“I’m an architect. I design buildings.”

His eyes widen. “Like houses?”

“Sometimes. Mostly bigger. Office buildings, apartment towers. I work in the city.”

“Which city?”

I hesitate a fraction. It is a long way from here and the name will mean nothing to him. I tell him anyway. He thinks about this for a moment and then nods, as if filing it.

“Why are you here?”

This is the question I was hoping not to have to answer to an eight-year-old. I think, briefly, about how to answer it.

“I’ve been matched with your brother,” I say. “By the Bureau. It’s a process we have to do. That’s why the car is here.”

“Oh.” He considers. “Okay. I’m going to go read, then maybe I’ll do my homework. We don’t have a TV if you want to watch something. Sorry.”