I typed a single-character response: No.
My phone rang. I answered.
“Why are you doing this to me?!” Brooke screamed, bypassing any form of greeting.
“Because they are my professional assets. And you are not utilizing them.”
“I am trying to salvage my future!”
“I am also not currently utilizing my forty-foot fiberglass extension ladder,” I replied mildly. “Would you like me to set that up in the middle of the dining room to enhance the aesthetic?”
“This is about my career, Rupert!”
“No, Brooke. This is about a mechanical failure in Mom’s basement. They are entirely separate issues.” I hung up again.
I went about my Saturday. I took Owen to the hardware store. I helped Lucy build a terrifyingly unstable fort out of couch cushions. I tried to push the looming disaster out of my mind.
But by noon, reports began filtering in from the front lines. She had successfully acquired six residential-grade electric space heaters.
