We were supposed to behave today.
The official plan—scribbled in diplomatic ink and enforced by the weary sighs of responsible adults—was a quiet, dignified ride to school in the blacked-out Range Rover with me and the girls.
Something "low profile."
As if any of us had ever successfully melted into the background of normal human existence. It was a nice idea. A civilized idea.
But of course, Tommy couldn't stay normal for more than 24 hours. His text buzzed at 3 AM—a frantic, caffeine-fueled manifesto vibrating with that barely-contained, manic energy he gets right before he does something profoundly expensive and utterly stupid.
No greeting. No "yo," "bro," or even a perfunctory "you awake?"
Just:
"I bought something. Actually… several somethings. Pick your fastest one. We're racing to school tomorrow."
Even through pixels, it was a sonic boom of pure ego. The dude had been on buying spree like I had but not of the same level.
