Channel 9
The alarm clock read 7:42 when Summer finally gave up pretending she might fall back asleep. She'd come home from the diner at half past midnight, feet throbbing, the smell of bacon grease baked so deep into her skin that even after a shower it clung to her like a second shift. Mrs. Petrakis next door had watched David until eleven, and Summer had paid her in tips—crumpled ones and fives that smelled like syrup and cigarette smoke, counted out on the kitchen table while David slept down the hall, oblivious to the quiet machinery that kept their life turning.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that had bloomed a little wider since August, shaped now like some continent nobody had discovered yet. Mark used to joke about fixing it. Mark used to joke about a lot of things he never got around to doing. The thought arrived without much heat anymore, just a dull, familiar weight, like a stone she'd carried so long she'd forgotten to notice its shape.
From down the hall came the thump of small feet hitting the floor, already moving fast, already awake in that effortless way only children seemed to manage. Summer sat up, rubbed her eyes, and reached for…