Chapter 2

He came to a halt and listened for a moment. Mom is humming a tune. That signifies something tasty is on the way.

His nose caught up the lovely odors of morning as he followed the pleasant sound. His mood brightened as he inhaled deeply, appreciating the delicious odors of fried bacon and fresh coffee, inspiring him to whistle along with his mother's song, a tune he had recently heard in a movie. What's the name of that song? I believe it has something to do with remembering the past.

She turned to face him as soon as he entered the kitchen, holding a foil pouch and a tall glass of orange juice. "I didn't cook you any bacon and eggs since I didn't know whether you'd be up on time," she explained. I don't think I'll be able to make any more."

Kyle frowned as he looked at the silver purse. "Pop-Tarts once more?"

"Breakfast is served hot to those who arrive early. You know, you're the one that had to stay up late."

Kyle grabbed the pouch and glass, leaned against the counter, and sipped the juice while watching his mother go about her business in the kitchen. He no longer required to reach upward to take something from her hand after his recent growth spurt. Except for the obvious contrasts, her slim, five-foot-seven physique mirrored his perfectly. She had shoulder-length hair that was lighter than his but not quite blonde, and she was unmistakably female. Her complexion was similarly lighter in tone, and she had German or Swedish face features.

Kyle shifted his gaze to the breakfast table. His father leaned back in his chair, a piece of toast in one hand and the newspaper in the other, his muscular, hairy hands holding the newspaper. Kyle's complexion was tinged with his father's tawnier tone, giving him a real combination of his mother and father. "My skin is too dark, and I'd never be able to get the hang of sipping hot tea," his father had responded when he enquired about his father's British forebears.

Kyle jerked himself out of his reverie. "Can I assist you with the dishes or something, Mom?"

She'd just finished putting a cooking pan in the sink. "Thank you, but no. Your father will finished them when he eats." She turned on the faucet and squirted a torrent of soap into the pan. "Did you spend last night working on the festival poster?"

"I wanted to finished that portrait for Dad's friend," she explained.

"Is it the basset hound's? What is the name of Dr. Holmes's dog?"

"I did leave it on Dad's—"

"Present and accounted for," said a deep voice. "It's right here," says the narrator.

Kyle swiveled around to find his father clutching a large piece of paper in his hand.

He went on to say, "You did a fantastic job. It reminds me of Sophie."

Kyle walked over to the table and sat down, placing his glass of juice next to his elbow with two big strides. "Thank you," he replied as he reached for his father's coffee cup. He waited, his finger curled around the warm mug, a wide smile on his face and a "may I please have a sip?" look on his face. His father gave him a cold stare, but Kyle knew it was all a ruse. The glitter in his father's brown eyes revealed his playacting, even though his father's thick eyebrows had curled downward and every line of his forty-something face had taken a hairpin turn toward his chin.

Kyle took a huge drink and peered over the side of the cup, as his father pretended to be interested in the sketch once more. Kyle placed the cup on the table, exclaimed, "Ahhh!" and wiped his mouth with his father's napkin. "Dr. Holmes gave you a small photo of Sophie," Kyle continued, pointing to the paper, "so I blew her up real large on my easel."

"It'll be a hit with Old Doc. How would you like to be compensated for this time?"

Kyle sipped his orange juice slowly before responding. "Simply instruct him to make a check payable to the Human Society with my name on the memo line. They'll be able to figure out what to do with it."

"Now you're putting your name in there? What exactly are they doing with the Kyle Langston wing for stray cats?"

"They are, after all, growing. You know, Salem's pals need a nicer location to live."

"Yes, I recall your decision to go to Salem. Those cat cages were stacked so high that they were higher than my head."

"As a result, they'll need all the assistance they can obtain."

"That's true, but don't you want to keep some of the money?"

"Not at all. At the event next night, I should be able to obtain plenty." Kyle grinned and looked down at his coffee cup. "Perhaps I'll make enough money to buy my own coffeemaker."

His father peered around the sketch, tipping the cup forward to inspect the penny-sized stain of coffee left at the bottom. "How much should I advise him to send?" his father asked.

Kyle shrugged his shoulders and responded, "I don't know. Twenty dollars?"

Kyle's father raised the portrait and looked at it once more. "This could be your best work yet." He laid the drawing on the table and began rolling it into a tube after wiping the table with a clean napkin. "I'm going to ask for fifty dollars. Doc shouldn't have any issues with that." He slid the cylinder between the salt and pepper shakers and took his folded newspaper off the table.

Kyle agreed, "Fifty would be fantastic."

"Right. For Christmas, Salem's buddies might want to get you a coffeemaker." His father grinned broadly and slapped Kyle on the head with his newspaper. Kyle reached for it, but his father pulled it from his grasp just in time. Kyle surged forward, around his father's neck with his arms, and yanked him to the ground. Right there in the Langston's kitchen, a world wrestling championship match had begun, although it wasn't particularly believable because both contestants were laughing so hard.

"I heard a motor, boys," Kyle's mother said from the doorway. "I believe the bus has arrived. But it's a little early."

Kyle leapt to his feet and lifted his father off the floor. He swelled with pride at his own ability to lift him up, despite his father being at least five inches taller and possibly forty pounds heavier. However, there isn't much fat in Dad's weight. With their regular squabbles, Kyle made sure of it.

"Dad, you'd better keep working out! I'll pin you one of these days!"

His father laughed as he ran his fingers over his thick, reddish brown hair. "There's no way."

Kyle ignored his own tangled locks and drank the last of his juice. He turned around just as he approached the corridor, gently stepping backwards as he talked. "Will you still be able to adjust your schedule for tomorrow so you can assist me at the festival booth?"

"Remember what I told you when you first asked?"

Kyle smiled and raised his finger to his father, who returned the gesture.

"You can count on it," they each answered, winking one eye.

Kyle turned back to try to catch the bus after they both laughed. Before rushing out the front door, he handed his mother the orange juice glass, kissed her on the cheek, and grabbed a rucksack. She winced and massaged her face before soon regaining her composure and waving.

Kyle was aware of her anguish, even in his haste. He returned the wave and resumed his quick pace, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had betrayed his secret—the mystery of his searing breath. While wrestling with his father, he had been careful to keep his mouth shut; any slip-up could make it clear.

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