“-didn’t help. Yesterday,” Quinn said, his voice horse with disuse.

“No, I, that should be my line. I didn’t mean to, you know.” God, I suck. An anxious laugh escaped him.

Quinn nodded, worn out from the few words he managed.

“I’m gonna head over to the kitchen. Are you hungry?” Jack asked.

Quinn clenched tighter onto the bear but didn’t say anything. Taking that as a yes, Jack headed for the door. He paused in the hallway just long enough to hear socked feet padding against the floor behind him.

This wasn't Jack’s first time dealing with a kid who had issues, but Quinn was on a different level than what he was used to. It was better not to ask too many questions. He’d let them rattle around inside his head.

Everyone was either at school or work on weekday mornings. Green wouldn't be in until noon at the earliest. The stillness was somehow worse than the noise. It showed how much of a hollow corpse this house was.

A wave of disinfectant fumes hit them as Jack unlatched the baby gate to the kitchen. Between yesterday and this morning, the room had been completely wiped down. Jack headed for the fridge, hoping to find leftovers. No luck.

“You’re not allergic to anything, right?” Jack asked, using the fridge handle to lean back and see Quinn’s response. Quinn had followed closer than he’d expected. 

He shook his head no. 

“You like mac ‘n cheese?”

Quinn nodded.

With a few clicks, the gas stovetop ignited into blue flames. It would take a while for the water in the pot to boil. Jack hoisted himself onto the counter while they waited. Quinn stared at the floor. He didn't shift his weight or glance around the room. His hands were shaking.

“So, why aren't you at school?” Jack asked, unable to stand the silence. It seemed like a benign enough topic. Quinn didn’t acknowledge that he'd said anything. “Just felt like skipping?”

Quinn vehemently shook his head no.

“What then?” Jack asked, sick of the mime games. Quinn held his right arm, squeezing it in his hand.

 “Paperwork mix-” he cleared his throat, “-paperwork.” He looked up from the floor in Jack’s general direction. “You?” Small bubbles formed in the bottom of the pot.

“I uh, I got suspended.” Jack watched the water start to swirl. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking about dropping out,” he said, more so admitting it to himself than Quinn. He didn’t expect a real response.

“What do you want to do?” Quinn asked, his eyebrows knitted together. The expression didn’t quite make it to concerned but got close. The question itself was strangely vague and open-ended.

“I don’t know.” Jack shook his head. Wanting was what got him in this mess. It was a luxury he wasn’t allowed. Not in this town. Maybe in the city or out west. The water rumbled to a boil. 

He jumped down from the counter and dumped the dry noodles into the pot. He forgot the butter.

“Can you stir this? Spoons are in the top drawer.” He said, already turning towards the fridge. Cold air drifted out and down his shins. The silverware drawer clinked and rattled as it opened and shut.

“You’re from Michigan, right? What's it like over there?” Jack asked, looking for the butter. The fridge wasn’t exactly organized. The eggs were under a head of lettuce next to the open package of bologna.

Hissing pulled his attention back to the stove. Quinn stared at the floor, his hand no longer stirring. The pot boiled over, spilling over the sides and into the flame below. A dome of scalding foam enveloped his hand.

“Humid.”