It had been nearly fifteen minutes since Edward had started searching for his bike. Fourteen since he had excused himself abruptly from the dinner table. His mother had tried to persuade him to eat his vegetables, not looking at Edward but at his father, to gauge when she had pestered him enough. Edward's father was the one who thought finishing broccoli was of any importance, both Edward and his mother were satisfied with the chicken fingers and maybe some cola to wash it down.

She couldn't stand another conversation about her second-rate parenting skills, in fact one more argument about his eating habits and she'd send the broccoli flying behind her on her way out. So neither of them said anything when Edward shoved one of the eight florets left on his plate, into his mouth, before knocking his chair over, picking it up, looking at both of them and then excusing himself. He didn't wait for a response, just darted out of the kitchen. He had already wasted a minute searching for his bike in his head, the way his mother had taught him to; walk backwards from the present moment until the last time he had used it. He had already checked the left corner of the metal fence framing their front yard, but it wasn't there.

They sat there, both staring at the space he had just left in the room. Stan took a long swig of his beer, drinking almost half. The sound he made when the suctioned bottle tip left his lips, seemed to swallow the kitchen along with the remaining beer back to the bottom of the transparent green glass.

Edward's mother had once written across the week of December 8th to 14th of some recent year's daybook 'Make a conscious effort not to throw things.' Right now she imagined taking every dish, glass, bottle and even the matching dove salt and pepper shakers her mother had given her, and shattering them against the table, in slow motion. It's what calmed her in these moments so she wouldn't actually succumb, afraid that one day she would and she didn't want Edward around for that. She started cutting up Edward's remaining florets into even smaller pieces, as though this would help, as though he'd come back for them again. Stan got up, taking his dish to the sink, at least he still did that.