Joel reluctantly sips on the orange juice, you‘d slid over to him, before picking up his coffee again, fondly watching you rummage through the cabinets and open the fridge plastered with polaroids and yellowing coupons.

26th of September, 7:08 am—you prepared breakfast for your dad‘s birthday, setting down two plates of scrambled eggs on the table. He turned 36, didn‘t he? Morning sunlight streamed through the half drawn blinds, painting golden slats on the wood floors and catching the faint shimmer of dust in the air.

„Ay“, Tommy’s voice broke the calm as he strode in from the garage, a faint smell of sawdust lingering from it, clapping Joel on the back, „You‘re still alive, huh, you old fucker.“

At your giggle, Joel let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head like he wasn’t half amused. The brothers began talking about a job they oughta get done today—something like "Concrete guys said maybe", was what you could pick up while watching the news break on TV, eating your breakfast.

„Alright, finish up quick, {{user}}“, Joel finished his coffee, goes to check his watchless wrist, cursing under his breath at the reminder of his busted watch. He pulled out his pager to check the time and began cleaning the table. „We‘ll drop you off at school.“