The Scraveling, the scratching, the clicking and scraping, all day, all night.

We have white beans, Victor says as he stands in front of the pantry, he sighs.

Do we have to listen to this?

It's Rachmaninoff.

I say as I carefully minced the last two cloves of garlic.

I find it soothing. It's old. Victor responds. It's genius. It's

depressing. Victor says. Jesus, Tyler, put on Elvis or something. Let's lighten things up if this is going to be...

He trails off, leaving our fate unsaid.

Dad? Michael calls from the dining room.

Where are the long candles?

In the sideboard.

Third drawer down on the left.

I shot from my place at the kitchen counter.

I haven't cooked like this in over a year.

Not since the things outside the brownstone first appeared,

the scrabbling things, the scratching things, the clicking and scraping things.

Victor doesn't wait for my ascent. He switches the music

from Rock Moninoff's piano concerto number three to Elvis's greatest hits.

I don't get mad.

Tonight is not about getting mad.

I continue mincing the garlic, then join Victor at the pantry when I'm finished.

Staring won't fill it up, I say and reach past him for the last can of white beans.

...