Age 13
The kitchen smelled like toast that had gone a little too dark on the edges and coffee that had been sitting on the warmer long enough to taste like the pot. Stephen sat at the table with his hands flat against the wood, palms sticking a little from the humidity and the thin film of sugar that never completely left the surface no matter how many times Mom wiped it down.
She had wiped it down twice already this morning.
She moved like the floor was on fire. Open a cabinet. Close it. Open it again as if the cabinet might have changed its mind. She laid a folded list on the counter, then picked it up and smoothed it with the side of her hand until the paper went glossy at the crease.
"Stephen, honey," she said without looking at him, "do you have your socks?"
He blinked. He had socks. He had too many socks. She had made him pack socks in a way that felt like he was going to be stranded somewhere cold and wet with no stores for a hundred miles.
"They're in my suitcase," he said.
Mom's head bobbed once, sharp. She turned toward the door, stared at the two suitcases sitting there like strangers waiting to be let inside, and then she stepped forward and tugged at the top zipper on the bigger one. It was already shut. She tugged again until the zipper tab clicked against the metal teeth.
"You are sure," she said.
Stephen watched her fingers. The knuckles were pale. Her wedding ring had a dull spot on it, like she had scrubbed something too hard in the sink yesterday. He wondered if she had done that on purpose, something to do with her hands so she did not do something else.
From outside came the thump of the tailgate and the scrape of something heavy being slid across it. Dad's boots on gravel. The rattle of a ratchet strap. He whistled, low and quiet, a tune Stephen recognized from the times Dad fixed the truck or patched a fence, the kind of sound Dad used when talking would make something crack.
Stephen listened for the whistle the way he listened for the ceiling fan at night. If it stopped, it meant something.
The fan creaked above them, blades wobbling slightly, and the fridge hummed with a steady, annoyed vibration. Mom's breath came in quick pulls through her nose like she was tasting the air for danger.
The doorway filled with Sheldon.
He had a clipboard. The clipboard was brand new, the kind that came from a store aisle with school supplies, and Sheldon held it like it was a badge. His hair was combed too flat. His shirt was tucked in so tightly the buttons looked like they were holding their breath.
"Checklist item one," Sheldon said, and he cleared his throat as if he was about to speak at church. "Notebook, pencils, textbooks, differential-equation reference guides."
Stephen's eyes tracked the clipboard. There were multiple pages clipped together. Sheldon had drawn neat lines. Sheldon had numbered things.
Dad's voice came from outside, muffled through the screen door. "Shelly."
The whistle stopped.
Dad stepped into the kitchen with a gust of outdoor heat and the smell of gasoline on his hands. He carried a roll of tape like he had brought it in as a weapon against chaos. His face looked normal in a way that felt practiced. He glanced at the clipboard, then at Stephen, and he leaned his hip against the counter.
"He's goin' to college," Dad said. "Not orbit."
Sheldon frowned without looking up. "Orbit would require significantly more mass."
Missy's voice floated in from the living room, thick with sleep. "So if Stephen's gone, that means Sheldon moves into Georgie's room, right?"
Stephen could not see Missy from the table. He heard her spoon scrape the bowl and the crunch of cereal. She was probably sitting on the couch with her knees tucked under her, hair a mess, eyes half closed but still awake enough to start trouble.
"Then I finally get my own," Missy added, as if this was a fair trade.
Dad dragged a hand across the back of his neck and his skin made a faint rasping sound. "We'll talk about it."
Missy snorted. "Translation, never."
Mom's head snapped up. Her mouth opened like she was about to say Missy's full name, the version that meant somebody was about to get sent to their room, but she stopped herself. She looked at Stephen instead, like she could take the sharpness and fold it into something softer if she aimed it at him.
"Eat," Mom said.
Stephen looked down. His plate had toast and a hard-boiled egg cut in half. The yolk was crumbly and dry. He had been chewing slowly for ten minutes. The food was turning into dust in his mouth.
He ate anyway because if he did not, Mom would look at him the way she looked at the suitcase zipper.
The front door opened and the air changed.
Meemaw's perfume hit the kitchen first, sweet and heavy, then cigarette smoke remembered its way into the room like it had rights. Meemaw walked in without knocking. She wore jeans and a blouse with the sleeves rolled up and sunglasses on her head. Her purse swung at her hip, and she carried something wrapped in an old bandana like it was a secret she was not afraid of.
"Morning, sugar," she said.
Mom's shoulders tightened. "Mom."
Meemaw smiled like she had heard something funny. She crossed straight to the table and set the bandana down in front of Stephen. It landed with a quiet thud.
"Figured you might need a piece of home," Meemaw said. Stephen's fingers hesitated. He could feel Mom watching his hands. He could feel Sheldon watching the bandana like it might contain contraband. He could feel Dad's attention settle in, quiet and alert.
He unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a silver lighter. Not shiny. Worn. The edges were rounded where somebody's thumb had rubbed it for years. There were tiny scratches on the lid and a dent on one corner. It was heavier than Stephen expected.
He turned it over. On one side, faint but clear, letters etched into the metal: Don't overthink the spark.
Stephen stared at the words until they were just shapes. He looked up at Meemaw.
"Yours?" he asked.
"Since nineteen-sixty-something," Meemaw said. She tapped a cigarette between two fingers, unlit. "Figured it oughta go to the kid who keeps tryin' to measure lightning."
Mom made a sound that was half breath, half disapproval. "You gave him a lighter."
"It's symbolic," Meemaw said. She widened her eyes in a fake innocent way.
Dad's mouth twitched. It almost became a smile.
"Thank you," Stephen said, because he knew the right words, even if they felt too small.
Meemaw leaned closer, and her voice dropped just a little so it was for him, not the room. "You do not have to be a machine to be smart. You hear me?"
Stephen swallowed and nodded once.
Meemaw straightened back up, the moment gone. She looked at Mom. "He is gonna be fine," Meemaw said.
Mom did not answer. She rubbed her temple with two fingers and then went back to the counter and picked up her list again like it could protect her.
Outside, Dad's truck idled. The morning light stretched across the kitchen. Stephen watched the dust motes drift and change shape, wondering if he would remember this exact sound—the fan creak, the fridge hum, and Missy's spoon scraping the bowl.
The day moved whether he wanted it to or not.
They carried bags to the truck. Dad lifted the big suitcase and slid it into the bed. Mom followed with smaller things, folded blankets, a box of books that made her arms shake. Georgie showed up late, hair wet, shirt already stained.
Georgie grabbed Stephen in a quick, awkward half hug. "Don't get all fancy," Georgie said into Stephen's ear.
Stephen's cheek pressed into Georgie's shirt. The fabric was warm. Georgie patted his shoulder once, hard, then stepped back fast like he had touched a hot stove.
Missy stood on the porch with her arms crossed. "Don't come back with an accent," she said.
Stephen blinked at her. "An accent?"
"Like one of those people on TV," Missy said. "All proper. Like Sheldon, but worse."
Sheldon stood in the yard, holding his clipboard. He marked something, then held the clipboard against his chest, watching the truck.
Dad called them together for a picture. Stephen stood in the middle. Mom pressed against his side, her hand on his shoulder, grip too tight. Dad stood on the other side, wide and solid. Sheldon held himself stiff. Missy leaned away from everybody on purpose. Georgie hovered in the back.
Meemaw stood off to the side, sunglasses still on her head. "Smile," Mom said, and her voice cracked on the word.
The camera clicked. The sound was small.
Dad climbed into the driver's seat. "You ready, son?"
Stephen nodded. The lighter was in his pocket. "Yeah," Stephen said. "I'm ready."
Mom, walked around to the passenger side and climbed in, settling into the cab with a shaky sigh. Meemaw, Sheldon, Missy, and Georgie gathered on the edge of the driveway to wave.
Meemaw leaned on the passenger side window before Dad could roll it up. She looked Stephen in the eye. "If you hate it," Meemaw said, "you call me. Not your mama. Your mama will drive down there and chain herself to the front desk."
Mom glared from the seat next to him. "Mom."
Meemaw smiled. "You know I am right."
Dad put the truck in gear. The tires crunched on gravel. The porch shifted in the rearview mirror, the house sliding backward, smaller and smaller. Stephen watched the figures of his siblings and Meemaw shrink into the distance until the angle changed and he could not see the front door anymore.
The drive felt longer than it should have. The sun climbed. Stephen's skin stuck to the seat. Mom talked in bursts, then went quiet, then talked again like she could not decide whether she was allowed to stop.
Austin showed up in pieces. More cars. Taller buildings. Heat that rose off the road in waves. The air smelled different. Less dirt, more exhaust.
Dad slowed near campus and turned down a street lined with trees and brick buildings. Stephen looked out the window and saw students. Older students. They moved like they belonged there. Stephen's stomach tightened. His hands went damp.
The truck pulled up near a sign that read Honors Youth Residence.
Dad killed the engine. The sudden quiet made Stephen's ears ring.
"Well," Dad said, and he rubbed the steering wheel with his palm, "looks like the big leagues."
Mom let out a shaky breath and reached for Stephen's hand. Her fingers wrapped around his, and she held on too long.
They unloaded bags. The air outside was thick and hot. Stephen carried his backpack because it felt wrong to let someone else carry it. Dad took the heavier things without asking. Mom hovered and fussed with the straps, smoothing his shirt.
Inside the dorm, the smell hit Stephen first. Carpet cleaner. Sweat. Something like old pizza.
A man with a UT lanyard stepped toward them holding a clipboard. The man smiled. "Stephen Cooper?"
Stephen nodded.
"I'm Ben," the man said. "I'm your RA. Welcome to the Honors Youth Residence."
"Yes," Stephen said.
Ben handed him a key and a packet of rules. "Room 214," Ben said. "Boys' wing, down this hall. We've got a few other minors in the program. Same supervision setup, study hours, curfew at nine. If you need anything, come find me."
Dad gave Ben a nod that was polite but guarded. Mom smiled too bright. Stephen turned and started down the hall.
Halfway there, another family passed them. Parents juggling boxes. A girl behind them carrying a stack of textbooks balanced against her chest like she had been born with them.
Paige.
Stephen stopped without meaning to. Paige looked up and saw him, and her mouth opened in a grin that was real.
"You weren't kidding," Paige said, breathless, and she adjusted the books against her chest. "We really did it."
Stephen's shoulders loosened. He felt like he could breathe again. "yea," Stephen said. "Just like the plan."
Paige laughed. "It feels weird actually standing in it."
"It smells like cleaner," Stephen said before he could stop himself.
Paige blinked, then nodded. "And somebody's socks."
Stephen's mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.
Ben's gaze flicked between them. "You two know each other?"
"We had the same mentor," Stephen said. "Back at East Texas Tech."
Paige shifted her books to one arm and stuck out her hand. "Paige Swanson."
Ben shook her hand. "Dr. Sturgis's kids. That tracks."
Paige rolled her eyes. "We are not kids."
Ben lifted a brow. "You are thirteen."
Paige's mouth tightened. Ben pointed down the hallway toward the window. "Boys' wing is here. Girls' wing is across the courtyard."
Her parents called her name from farther down the hall. Paige lifted her chin. "I'll see you," Paige said.
Stephen nodded. "Okay."
She turned and went up the stairs. Stephen watched her until she disappeared, then forced himself to move again.
Room 214 was at the end of the hall. Stephen slid the key into the lock. The door opened with a sound like the hinge needed oil.
The room was small. Two beds. Two desks. A window with blinds that rattled in the breeze. The air inside was cooler than the hallway but smelled like old carpet and new paint. A box sat on the second bed, still taped shut. Mom came in behind him carrying a bag. Dad followed with the suitcase. They set things down. Mom started unpacking immediately, pulling shirts out and smoothing wrinkles that would come back the second Stephen sat down.
"Mom," Stephen said.
She did not look at him. "I am just helping."
Stephen stood by the desk. He set his notebook down. He lined up his pencils without meaning to.
Dad checked the window latch and then stepped back. He looked around the room and nodded once. Mom opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Her eyes glistened.
"Remember," Mom said, and her voice went thin, "Sunday calls."
"I will," Stephen said.
She finally looked at him. "Love you," she said.
"Love you too," he said.
Mom pressed her lips together and nodded. She reached up and smoothed his hair, then pulled her hand back fast. She turned toward the door.
Dad stood in the doorway for a second. "Listen," Dad said, and his voice dropped into that low steady tone. "You do your best. You need help, you ask. You hear me?"
Stephen nodded.
Dad's jaw moved. He stepped forward and put a hand on Stephen's shoulder. It was heavy. Solid. It lasted one second, then Dad removed it. "Alright," Dad said.
They left.
The door shut. The click of the latch sounded too loud. Footsteps faded down the hall.
Stephen stood still until his legs started to feel strange. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the lighter.
Don't overthink the spark.
He flipped the lid open. The hinge resisted, then gave. He rolled the wheel with his thumb. The flint sparked. The flame rose small and straight, blue at the base, yellow at the tip.
He held it there for a moment and watched it tremble like it was alive. Then he snapped it shut.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.