The smell of burnt toast dragged Grant out of sleep. His nose wrinkled before his eyes even opened. But then he heard the familiar clank of their toaster being smacked against the counter.
Grant pushed back the blanket, shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, and found his father hunched over the toaster.
Spencer glanced up, grease still smudged on his cheek from yesterday's shift, and grinned.
"Morning, champ. Don't worry, I'm just trying to convince this ancient beast to do its one job."
Grant rubbed his eyes. "Pretty sure that toaster's older than you."
"Older than both of us combined," Spencer shot back, tapping the side of it with a screwdriver. "But she's still got some fight left."
Grant climbed onto one of the mismatched chairs, elbows on the table. "Mom would've just bought a new one."
Spencer's grin faltered, just for a breath. "Yeah, well… I'm not your mom. I like to win my battles the hard way." He twisted the screwdriver, his voice light again. "Besides, where's the fun in easy?"
Grant giggled, leaning forward to get a better look. "You're gonna break it worse."
"Not possible." Spencer handed him the screwdriver. "Here. Give it a try, engineer."
Grant carefully jabbed the toaster's side, tongue poking out in concentration. The metal lip caught his finger, and he hissed. A sharp red line appeared across his skin.
Spencer's head whipped toward him. "Grant—"
But before the warning could finish, the cut sealed over. The blood beaded, then disappeared, leaving nothing but smooth, unbroken skin.
Grant blinked at it, more surprised at his dad's reaction than his finger. "Huh. Guess it wasn't that bad."
Spencer stared a beat too long, face unreadable. Then, with a quick shake of his head, he forced a smile.
"Guess you're tougher than you look, champ." He ruffled Grant's hair, then turned back to the toaster.
Grant shrugged it off, already distracted. "So… can I have the less-burnt one when it works?"
"In this house," Spencer said, sliding the screwdriver back into the drawer, "we share the misery evenly. You get a half-burnt piece, I get a half-burnt piece."
Grant groaned dramatically, which earned a laugh from his dad.
The toaster finally coughed out two mangled slices.
Spencer dropped one on each plate and tried to make it feel like a normal morning.
And for Grant, it was. Just breakfast with his dad. Just burnt toast. Nothing extraordinary at all.
Grant licked crumbs from his fingers while Spencer flicked through channels on the old TV perched on their counter. The screen flickered between game shows, static, and the morning news.
"…another raid was carried out in the East Quarter late last night," the anchor's voice crackled. "Officials report the apprehension of three suspected Gifteds—"
Spencer's thumb hit the remote fast. Cartoon voices filled the room instead, a squeaky jingle about cereal.
Grant frowned. "Hey, I wanted to hear—"
"Cartoons," Spencer cut in, sharper than he meant to. He forced a lighter tone. "Breakfast is no time for scary stories."
From the open window, voices drifted up from the street below. The old woman across the hall was whispering with the grocer's wife. Grant caught only pieces: Taskforce… midnight… dragged them out… Weeds hiding everywhere…
"…and someone said the boy could set things on fire just by sneezing."
"Don't be ridiculous. They just make up stories so no one asks questions."
Spencer's jaw tightened. He crossed the room and shut the window with more force than necessary.
Grant poked at the edge of his toast. "What's a Weed?"
Spencer froze. Then, with a practiced smile, he sat back down. "Just what scared people call folks who are… different. Some think Gifteds grow wild, like weeds. And yeah, some say they can move things without touching them, or break things without meaning to. But you don't need to worry about that. Leave it to the grown-ups."
"Are they bad?"
"No." Spencer softened it with a sigh. "Not all of them… It's complicated, kiddo. And I don't want you thinking about it."
He reached over and squeezed Grant's shoulder. "Promise me you'll stay inside today. No wandering the halls. No sneaking out to play in the courtyard. Promise?"
Grant mumbled, "Promise."
The cartoons chattered on, bright colors flashing across the screen. But Spencer wasn't watching.
When Grant wasn't looking, he drifted back to the window, parting the blinds with two fingers. His eyes scanned the street below, lingering too long, searching for something.
Behind him, the cartoons laughed. In the reflection of the glass, his face didn't look like a man watching TV with his son. It looked like a man waiting for the knock at the door.
After dinner, Grant sprawled on the couch with a half-finished drawing in his lap, colored pencils scattered across the coffee table. He hummed softly, tongue caught between his teeth as he tried to shade a cape just right.
Across the room, the TV murmured low. Spencer sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the news. The anchor's voice was steady but grim, talking about another raid outside the city. Grainy footage showed smoke, flashing sirens, and soldiers in black armor.
Spencer's jaw clenched. He muted the sound mid-sentence, keeping his voice steady. "Just politics, champ. Nothing you need to worry about."
Grant shrugged, already slipping back into his drawing. But Spencer kept watching the silent screen, eyes narrowing.
Then, faintly at first, the sound reached them. A low hum, steady, mechanical. Not the roar of cars, not the city's usual buzz. Something heavier.
Spencer straightened. He crossed to the window, peering through the blinds. Distant lights flickered against the haze of the skyline, and the hum grew louder. Helicopters. Maybe more.
His heart kicked into a sprint. He snapped the blinds shut, flicked off the lamp, and crossed to the door. Locks clicked under his hands.
Grant looked up, puzzled. "Dad? Why are you—"
"Shh." Spencer pressed a finger to his lips, listening hard. The engines were closer now, rolling like thunder over the rooftops.
Grant slid off the couch, clutching his drawing. "Is it the army?"
Spencer didn't answer. His hand hovered on the deadbolt, knuckles white.
Later that night, after dishes were stacked in the sink and the city outside had gone quiet, Grant sat cross-legged on his bed, fiddling with the broken toy car Spencer had tried to fix weeks ago. The headlights still didn't work, but he liked turning the wheels, watching them spin fast before they slowed.
Spencer lingered in the doorway, arms folded. He looked tired, but not the usual kind of tired. His eyes were shadowed, restless. After a moment, he stepped inside and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Grant," he said softly, "I need you to listen to me."
Grant glanced up. His dad only used that voice when he was really serious. "Okay…"
Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the words. "Remember when we used to play tag in the park? You'd always beat me because you never looked back, just kept running. If there's ever a time I tell you to do that again—run like that—you don't argue, you don't stop. You just go. Understand?"
Grant frowned, clutching the toy car. "What do you mean, 'if something happens'? Nothing's gonna happen."
Spencer tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the plan, champ. But life's… tricky sometimes. And I need to know that if things ever go sideways, you'll be safe."
Grant shook his head stubbornly. "But I wouldn't leave you."
Spencer's chest tightened. He pulled Grant into his arms, hugging him close. "I know you wouldn't. That's why I'm asking. Because I need to know you'll be okay, no matter what." His voice wavered, just for a moment.
Grant leaned back, looking up at him. "But you'll be there, right? You'll protect me?"
Spencer forced the fear from his face, nodding firmly. "Always. That's my job. Nothing's ever gonna change that."
The boy studied him, still unconvinced, but Spencer brushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. "Promise me, Grant. If I ever tell you to run, you do it."
Grant hesitated, then whispered, "Promise."
Spencer kissed the top of his head, holding him a second longer than usual. "Good man."
When the light was switched off and the door clicked shut, the room went quiet again. Grant lay awake a while, staring at the ceiling, wondering why his dad sounded scared of something he couldn't see.