Icing

Overtime

Photo by roya ann miller on Unsplash

The door closed, and with the wind of the door a cloud of dust, dirt, a small sliver of rust from an oil drum billowed into the foyer.

Graylin toed the spiraling stairs in her footie pajamas, some anime hero Laura couldn’t pronounce.

“It’s late,” Graylin said, as though she was the parent and Laura and Evan were the children.

Laura smiled.

“We’re aware,” Evan said. “On the way back from the Callida Parkway encampment, we saw a small fire.”