1129 Plickett Place was a dreary bungalow that never quite caught the sunlight. Every time Jonah had been there it had felt like a heavy autumn afternoon, no matter the time of day or season. Today was no different.
As he waited for Michael to finish whatever he was doing, Jonah took in the smells of the place. Musty carpet, wet animals, cigarette smoke, and warmed-up leftovers that had assumed an odor more of plastic than food. The orange light from outside filtered in through half-closed venetian blinds, like slices of a dying sun’s final gasp.
An old television screen watched him from one corner of the room, its dead grey eye staring from a worn and splintered wooden socket. A videogame console of equal age sat tethered to the TV by fraying cables, a cartridge jammed upright and monolithic, the whole thing a shrine to a bygone technological era. Jonah felt moved to see if the system still worked, and very nearly shifted himself from his place of comfort in an old, overstuffed recliner, when Michael appeared at the doorway.
“I’m ready to go,” the younger man said.
First draft: 141216
Published: 230718