The railing creaked under my hand and I made a note to fix that later, probably never.
Six months ago my biggest morning problem had been finding pants that still fit. Now I stood on a staircase mapping the thermal output of sixteen sleeping teenagers while something older than human language turned its face toward a volcanic rock in the middle of the ocean and thought about me.
Character growth. Everybody talks about it. Nobody warns you it comes with a sensory package you cannot uninstall.
I let go of the railing and finished the stairs. Maki trotted ahead of me with her tails held high, twin banners announcing the arrival of somebody important, which in her assessment was herself.
The kitchen light was already on.
Of course it was.
