The Itinerary of Doom
The clock reads 10:47 when Greg finally opens his eyes, and there's a moment—just one perfect, glorious moment—where he remembers it's spring break and nothing in the world matters at all.
No alarm. No backpack. No Mr. Ira droning on about the water cycle like it's the most fascinating thing that's ever happened to water. Just ten glorious days stretching out ahead of him like a highway with no speed limit, and Greg intends to spend every single one of them exactly the same way: horizontal, thumbs on a controller, brain fully switched off.
He's already planned it out in his head. Wake up whenever his body feels like it. Eat cereal directly from the box because pouring it into a bowl is a needless extra step. Play video games until his eyes go square. Maybe, if he's feeling ambitious, change his socks.
It is, in Greg's professional opinion, the perfect itinerary.
He rolls over, pulls the blanket up to his chin, and is just drifting back toward the soft, warm nothing of sleep when his bedroom door bangs open hard enough to rattle the framed poster of a motocross guy that Greg definitely didn't pick out himself and has been meaning to take down for two years.
"Rise and shine,…
