“You aren’t always what you say you are,” Colt’s brother said, from the kitchen table, between spoonfuls of cereal. “Even if you scream it.”
She’d spent the morning arguing with their parents. Something about responsibilities and free will and return on investment. Now she sat across from her brother, watching him tilt his bowl up and drink what was left of the milk.
“Fuck off,” she said. “And wipe your chin.”
They sat there. Their parents ran out, off to work, saying how this wasn’t finished and they’d talk tonight.
“Wanna walk together?” he asked. She did, and they left.