She comes home late into a Sunday afternoon and is met by the static hum of the AC. Except for the AC, the house is deathly quiet. From room to room, nothing moves; nothing stirs. The late summer sun lurks outside but it must first pass--if it is to pass at all--through the beige filter of the 1970's style curtains, denying summer in every room. Still: soft light invades--just enough to illuminate the general outline of things.

"K, come down here and help with the groceries," she calls from the bottom of the stairs. She throws her keys down on the front stoop and goes back outside. She brings in a double-bagged gallon of milk and sets it by the keys. She returns next with a baby boy. Setting him down by the milk and keys, she calls once more to K.

"I mean it. Get down here and help me. I need help carrying in these groceries." There is no reply. No sudden movement in the house to indicate that he's heard her. By the time she carries in the last bags, she is ready to fight. She stamps upstairs and searches every room for K. "Did you really not hear me, K? You better not be pretending to sleep." She marches from room to room--first checking the usual spots where K can routinely be found passed out or reading a book or watching TV--finding anything to occupy his time but her. So lazy, she mutters to herself. I have never met anyone so lazy in my entire life.

Downstairs, nestled in a field of hulking plastic grocery bags, the baby boy begins to wail. "Oh, shoot," she says. She races downstairs. Sshh, it's ok. She holds the baby to her chest and they bounce in tandem.

"K, get down here and carry these groceries up. I carried them in. The least you can do is get down here and carry them up."

Upstairs, she looks over the mail that has been sitting on the kitchen table for the past week. Nothing new. But she already knows this. She flips through each envelope, re-familiarizing herself with the general look of each one. Mostly junk mail, but it helps her keep track and make sense of her world when she is able to review its ephemera.

She lays the baby down on the sofa and once again resumes her circuit of rooms she can reasonably expect to find K. Finding him in none of these rooms, she becomes agitated. She can feel herself begin to sweat. An angry sweat.

She goes downstairs and checks the garage. Maybe he went somewhere and she just didn't notice, in her singular mission to get the groceries out of her car as quickly as possible, that his car was missing. His mid-range compact car is still there. A breeze moves past her as she stands in the doorway. She becomes concerned.