Disconnected

Ethan had never liked doctors. He did not argue about it or announce it. He simply avoided them. If nothing was broken, bleeding, or visibly wrong, he saw no reason to invite someone with cold hands and sharper questions into his life. He had lived long enough to know that once people started looking for problems, they usually found them. Clara had never agreed with that logic. "You've been pale," she said that morning, her voice steady as she rinsed her mug and set it in the drying rack. "And you barely ate last night." "I ate," Ethan said, reaching for his coffee. "I just didn't overdo it." She turned and looked at him the way she always did when she was deciding whether to press the issue. Years of marriage had taught her when to push and when to let silence do the work. "That's not eating," she said. He took a sip instead of answering. The coffee should have been hot. It wasn't cold exactly—just wrong. Lukewarm, like it had been sitting too long, though steam still curled faintly from the mug. For half a second, a metallic tang flickered at the back of his tongue, sharp as a penny. Then it was gone. Coffee was something he understood. Something he could control. He had perfected it over time, down to the grind and the water temperature. Too bitter meant you rushed it. Too weak meant you gave up too early. This was... fine. Clara sighed and reached for his foot, rubbing it gently through his sock. She did it without thinking, the same way she always had. Circulation, she liked to say. He pretended not to notice, even though he always did. "I feel fine," he said. "You always feel fine." "And I usually am." She did not argue further. She finished cleaning the counter, wiped it once more for good measure, and grabbed her keys. When the door closed behind her, the house exhaled. That was how Ethan liked it during the day. The quiet settled into its familiar rhythm. The refrigerator hummed. The air conditioner clicked on and off. Sunlight poured through the windows and stretched across the floor in clean lines. One of the stripes trembled. Just slightly. A faint flicker, like a fluorescent bulb warming up. Ethan frowned at it. The light steadied. Arizona light did not soften anything. It revealed it. He walked down the hall and into his office. The company was based in Florida, but this was where the real work happened. His desk was neat without being sterile. Pens lined up. Notebook centered. Monitors angled just right. Director of Software Engineering meant constant decisions and problems that never fully disappeared. He liked that. Stress kept him sharp. It gave shape to his days. He opened his email and started reading. A call came in before he finished the first message. He stood as he answered, phone tucked against his shoulder as he paced the room. "No, we are not pushing it without testing," he said. "I don't care what the timeline says." He stopped near the window, staring out at the pale desert beyond the glass. Mountains sat unmoving in the distance. "If it breaks, it breaks on us. Fix it first." The call ended. He exhaled and rolled his shoulders. Some things were still simple. Problems you could solve if you were willing to be direct enough. He poured another cup of coffee. This one was hot. Normal. He turned on music. Journey filled the room quietly at first, familiar and steady. He let the album play without skipping. He always did. By midmorning, the pressure behind his eyes returned. Not pain. Just weight. Like something resting there that didn't belong. He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. Lack of sleep, maybe. He had stayed up late watching old fishing videos, thinking about trips he had taken years ago. California. Florida. Standing knee-deep in water before sunrise, rod in one hand, beer in the other. Those mornings had felt endless. He pushed the thought away and stood, pacing again as another call came in. His voice stayed calm. Controlled. He liked knowing he could still command a room even when it existed only through a screen. When the call ended, the music shifted. Jimmy Eat World now, low and steady. The kind of song that sat with you without demanding attention. He tapped his foot without realizing it. Lunch came and went unnoticed. Eventually, he wandered into the kitchen and started pulling ingredients from the fridge. Cooking grounded him. It gave him something physical to focus on. Garlic. Herbs from the garden. Chicken. Olive oil. He lined everything up carefully. As he reached for the cutting board, something cold brushed his wrist. Not warmth this time. Cold. Brief. Clinical. Like adhesive being peeled away. He froze. Nothing was there. He turned his wrist, inspecting the skin. No mark. No redness. No reason. He flexed his fingers and forced a breath through his nose. Fatigue did strange things. He had been working too much. That was all. Knife against board. Garlic hitting the pan. The smell filled the kitchen, familiar and comforting. Music played softly behind him. Journey again. He thought briefly of his son—the argument months ago, the words that had landed harder than he'd intended. Obsessed with a job that doesn't love you back. The distance afterward had been quiet but heavy. Temporary, he told himself. Things like that always were. He stirred the sauce and tasted it, adjusting the seasoning. Control. Order. Sophie's backpack sat by the door, dropped there earlier that morning. She would be home later, after school and her shift. He liked knowing her routine without needing to ask. By late afternoon, the sun had shifted, shadows stretching the wrong way across the floor. He blinked. They corrected themselves. He stepped outside with a cigar and a beer, turning the music up just enough to feel it. When When Worlds Collide came on—louder, sharper than the rest—he let it play. The beat pressed into his chest. It felt good to let something push back. He walked into the garden and knelt, brushing dirt from the basil leaves and checking the tomatoes. One plant had browned edges. He frowned and adjusted the soil, reassuring himself that it would recover. The cold sensation returned. This time, it lingered. He did not look down. He stayed very still until it passed. Inside, Clara cleaned the kitchen when she returned, wiping counters and stacking dishes. Sophie came home later, tired and quiet, offering a brief smile when she saw dinner ready. Night settled in. Ethan sank into the recliner, music low, coffee in hand. His limbs felt heavy—heavier than they should—but not in a way that worried him. The house hummed around him. Everything was where it should be. He closed his eyes. The room buzzed softly, almost imperceptible, like electricity running through a wall. Ethan opened his eyes and looked down at his wrist. Just above the pulse point, faint but unmistakable, was a thin line of black text. A number. He rubbed at it with his thumb. It didn't smear. The light overhead flickered once, buzzing sharply. Ethan stared at his skin, heart beating hard against his ribs, and thought—for the first time—that this wasn't stress. This was a system behaving badly.