Chapter 19-Home, Home Again

Needing sleep, Steamer reached his house as morning broke; the way a man approaches a memory he isn’t sure will still fit him. The porch light was on though it was full daylight, which meant Emma had left it burning overnight. Not as a beacon; she wasn’t sentimental like that; but as a signal. You’re late. I noticed.

He stood there a moment, letting the normalness of the siding and the windows and the potted plant Emma kept forgetting to water press against the last traces of the Zone still clinging to him. The Zone didn’t like to let go. It left a residue; on the skin, in the thinking. He’d walked hard to shed most of it.

He opened the door.

The house had that particular quiet of a place where someone has been waiting too long. Not tense. Not angry. Just ..... stretched.

Emma was at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, hands around a mug she wasn’t drinking from. She looked up when he entered, and her expression didn’t change. That was worse than anger. Emma’s neutrality was a scalpel.

“You’re a day late,” she said.

“I know.”

“You said before sleep.”

“I meant it.”

She studied him. Not his face; his edges. She was checking for distortions, for the subtle warping that sometimes came back with people who’d stayed too long or seen too much. She’d learned to look for it the way other wives learned to check for lipstick on collars.

“You’re here now,” she said finally.

“I’m here.”

A beat. Then she stood, walked past him, and pressed her forehead briefly to his shoulder. Not a hug. A calibration. Making sure he was solid.

“Zarry’s in the living room,” she said. “He waited up. Twice.”

Steamer nodded, throat tight in a way he didn’t show.

He found Zarry on the carpet, curled around his stuffed fox, the blue block; the one which matched the one he’d given his dad Steamer, sitting on the coffee table like an offering waiting to be reclaimed and completed.

The boy stirred when Steamer stepped in. Kids always know the footsteps of the people they love.

Zarry blinked, sat up, rubbed his eyes. “Dad?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“You’re late.”

“I know. Everyone keeps telling me.”

Zarry considered this, then held out his hand. Not for a hug. For the block.

Steamer took it from his pocket and placed it in the small open palm.

Zarry inspected it carefully, turning it over like a customs officer checking for tampering. “Did you use it?”

“No. Gate wasn’t stuck.”

Zarry nodded, satisfied. “Okay.”

He scooted closer and leaned his head against Steamer’s arm. Not a cuddle; Zarry didn’t do cuddles, but a small, precise contact, the same way he’d marked him before the trip. A way of saying you left, and now you’re back, and the world can resume.

Emma appeared in the doorway, arms crossed but softer now. “Dinner’s cold,” she said.

“I’m hungry anyway.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

Zarry looked up at him. “Did the Zone say anything?”

Steamer thought about that. About the perimeter guards, the way they’d stared at him, the way the Zone had let him go but not entirely empty handed.

“It said enough,” he answered.

Zarry accepted that. Emma didn’t. She held his gaze a moment longer, reading him the way she always did; efficiently, unsentimentally, with a precision that made lying pointless.

“You’re home,” she said.

Steamer exhaled. “Yeah.”

And for the first time since he’d crossed the perimeter, he felt the Zone finally release its grip. Not because it wanted to.

Because Emma and Zarry pulled harder.

You Make Loving Fun

Fleetwood Mac

Sweet wonderful you

You make me happy with the things you do

Oh, can it be so?

This feeling follows me wherever I go

I never did believe in miracles

But I′ve a feeling it's time to try

I never did believe in the ways of magic

But I′m beginning to wonder why

Didn’t believe in miracles

But I've a feeling it's time to try

Didn’t believe in the ways of magic

But I′m beginning to wonder why

Don′t, don't break the spell

It would be different and you know it will

You, you make loving fun

And I don′t have to tell you but you're the only one

You make loving fun

(It′s all I wanna do)

You make loving fun

(It's all I wanna do)

You make loving fun

(It′s all I wanna do)

You make loving fun

(It's all I wanna do)

Written by Christine McVie