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circling job possibilities.
    Gerald Ryker burst through the back door, grass clinging to his boots, sweat staining the T-shirt beneath his overalls. “Clay, you’re home.”
    “Hi, Dad.”
    “You get in last night? You have a safe trip?”
    “Uneventful.” Clay knew anything more would be a waste of breath.
    “The lawn mower wake you up?”
    “What lawn mower?”
    “Never mind.”
    Clay tried not to smile at this subtle victory.
Score one for the Claymeister
.
    “You get the coffee brewing, Son?”
    “In the pot.”
    “Good. Back under my roof, I expect you to do your part.”
    Gerald Ryker hefted his omnipresent blue travel mug. To the trained eye, it functioned as a barometer of the man’s disposition, and its present configuration boded well for Clay. Empty, with the lid off: partial clearing, chance of sun.
    Seconds passed while a torrent of caffeine filled the container.
    Clay said, “Cream’s here on the table.”
    Gerald snapped the lid into place and stood rigidly in the middle of the kitchen.
    “Hold on, Dad. You drink it straight up, don’t you?”
    Clay braced himself for an admonition or, more likely, a sound bite from the past:
Black for me, Son—same way I like my women
. The phrase had been monumentally offensive to Clay in high school when he’d started dating Mylisha French. With nervous defiance, he’d introduced her to Gerald, expecting a reaction. Instead, he’d received stony silence on the subject.
    Here in the Ryker residence, silence was a language of its own.
    “You looking for a job?” Gerald ignored the creamer, hooked a chair with his foot to join Clay at the table. “Tell you right now, you’re wasting your time.”
    “Huh?”
    “Did I mumble, Son?” Gerald took a long slurp from his mug. “Forget the classifieds. You got work all laid out for you. Stan Blomberg’s expecting you.”
    “Blomberg?”
    “Used to work with me in the lumberyard. Heavyset, red hair, a real religiousfanatic. He left the lumberyard to manage things over at the monument company. Blomberg’s a character, but we’ve stayed in contact over the years.”
    “Did you say monuments? You mean tombstones?”
    “Now’s no time to be picky, Son. Pay’s not bad starting off.” Gerald set a fist atop the blue mug and elaborated. “Ten and a half an hour. Could go up at your ninety-day review. If I remember right, insurance and 401(k) will kick in too. You’ll have to ask Blomberg. One judgmental son of a gun, but he’ll lay it all out for you.”
    “And I’ll be doing what exactly?”
    “Like I said, you’ll have to ask him.”
    Clay tried not to react. This was his parents’ house, so it was only natural they’d nose into his decisions. He folded the half-read newspaper and pushed it across the table to his father.
    In handling the newsprint, he realized he’d smudged his fingers with ink. He gazed at the stains, felt a quiver of foreboding, the same sensation he’d had after last night’s encounter with Summer.
    She’d taken hold of his hand, and he’d felt indentations throb beneath his skin. Cryptic numbers. Ephemeral, yet undeniable.
    6.2.1.0.4 …
    Just like the incident with his mother … 
1.2.2.5.2.1 …
    He forced the sequences from his mind like a bad dream.
    “So, Dad, Blomberg’s open to this idea? He’s expecting me?”
    “This Monday morning, the twenty-first. Eight o’clock.”
    “And you didn’t think to ask me about it?”
    “Job’s a job, Son.”
    “Guess you’ve got it all mapped out for me.”
    “Man’s gotta go out and make things happen. The least I can do.”
    “The least.” Clay crossed his arms. “You know, maybe next time you could run it by me first. I’m not a kid anymore.”
    Gerald looked up over the newspaper. “This your way of saying thanks?”
    “It’s my way of letting you know I’ll be making my own decisions.” Clay pushed away from the table, wishing Jenni could hear this newfound candor. She’d said he couldn’t