June 25, 1979
osh Everett was twenty-one years old the first time the voices spoke to him.
That ordinary summer morning, he ran a comb through his shaggy, almost shoulder-length black hair as he checked his reflection in the small bathroom mirror. Later, he’d wish he’d looked harder; stared into the pool of his own eyes, attempting to see straight into his brain. Maybe if he’d watched closely enough he would’ve seen it happen; something misfiring deep within the recesses of his brain, an almost imperceptible ripple in the calm waters, a subtle precursor to the storm.
He hurried downstairs toward the aroma of coffee floating up to greet him. At the threshold of the tiny kitchen, he paused to take in the scene. Amy stood at the stove with her back to him. His wife’s long brown hair was secured behind her in a messy ponytail and one of his t-shirts almost swallowed her small frame. He watched her
Amy caught sight of Josh and broke into a grin. She made him feel ten feet tall just by the way she lit up when he entered a room. “Good morning, handsome,” she said. “Have a seat. I hope Mrs Crofsky’s hens next door keep the eggs coming.”
Instead, he walked up to her and snaked his arms around her from behind, kissing her slender neck.
She gasped. “Stop that! You’ll make me burn the eggs. I’m trying to actually cook them right this time.”
“It’d be worth it.” He inhaled her strawberry scent before turning to greet his son, bending down to his level and ruffling his hair. “Morning, Caleb. High five.” Josh held up his large hand. Caleb giggled and instead reached up with a sticky hand to tug Josh’s hair.
“Oww.” Josh pulled back making Caleb giggle harder. The baby lifted a piece of pancake as a peace offering and Josh bent his head and let him feed it to him. “Mmm,” he said wiggling his eyebrows in exaggeration. “Mama’s such a good cook it tastes delicious even with slobber on it.”
Amy laughed and swatted him with a dish towel. “Sit down and you’ll get your own. Slobber free.”
Taking a seat at the narrow breakfast bar next to Caleb’s highchair, he ran his hand over the distressed wood that he’d constructed with his own hands.
“Smells great,” he told Amy as he picked up the knife and fork and began meticulously cutting his meal. Amy always laughed at his quirk of cutting up all his food before he ate it.
“It’s like you’ve been practicing for fatherhood your whole life,” she’d tell him, and as silly as it was, he liked the thought that somewhere in his subconscious he’d spent his life getting ready for Caleb. He poked one of the egg yolks, letting the yellow bleed across the red plate. Then it happened. A low, unfamiliar voice spoke.