A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

3

Five weeks, one week to go.

The settling-in process hasn't been the easiest. The major change in routine and the simplicity of our lives in the last home means we've all struggled to adapt, my brother most of all.

Rufus has spent the last three days puking his guts up.

At first we thought it was travel sickness, or homesickness, but he has been fine up until now.

"Poor boy, poor boy." My mother repeats, droning on and on about how maybe moving wasn't such a good idea and that we were better off remaining where we were originally, but she's always quicky shut down by hushed words from dad as he is quick to remind her the reason for our move in the first place.

"Heya, Roof." I tap his shoulder, sitting down at the foot of his bed. His room is sparsely decorated, a couple pictures hear and there, a small desk with a laptop on it, the grey walls adorned with a couple framed drawings from his younger years.

His room was specifically chosen by my parents, as it was the closest to their bedroom and was the farthest from any entrance to the house, yet another decision made by my father.

Rufus, on the other hand, rests in bed, covered in quilted blankets and an old denim jacket my dad put on him for "good luck," as he put it.

Bloodshot eyes, a morose demeanor and a glass of water on his bedside table really make him look a proper sorry soul.

"Heya Flake."

His nickname for me, seen as my name always reminded him of chocolate flakes, being his favourite part of any ice cream sundae or hot chocolate. I appreciate a man who knows what he likes.

"How are you doing?" I ask

"I'm okay." He responds weakly, the words coming out feeble and near strained.

The room falls silent as we sit there, a few sniffles every now and then from th kid and a deep, breathy sigh from me.

"Anything I can do?" I ponder, wanting to help.

"Do you have your phone?" He asks, and I produce my smartphone from my pocket.

"What'cha need, kiddo?" I ask.

"Do you have any music I can listen to, to help take my mind of the sickness?"

"Yeah, of course." I say, bringing up Spotify and giving him my headphones, as he searches up something for him to listen to.

"What's on?" I ask, and he shows me what song he's put on.

"Pearl Jam huh? Not bad."
Taking a second to appreciate the kid's taste in music, I tap his leg gently and get up to leave, giving him a smile as I leave him to his own devices, or my device if you will, and gently closing his door. Not fully, but enough to give him some privacy.

I pass my mother on the stairs, moving out of the way for her, as she goes up to check on him, and I make no effort to eavesdrop on their conversation, though I do wonder what they could be talking about now - it's the fifth time she's been up there in the past half-hour.

"Sun's out." Dad says as I enter the living room, nose buried deep in a newspaper.

"It's always out." I reply, taking no note of him and sitting down in the armchair.

"So go out in it then, have a look around. Get familiar with the place. Better yet find yourself a way to that school you'll be going to in a weeks time."

"So why aren't you out there?"

"Because."

"Because what."