Dominion

Cloudy Tuesday Morning

Before walking off, Jack kicks Havel hard in his ribs, sending Havel to wail in pain.

Their mother rushes to seize Jack by his upper arm, then drags him over to Havel.

"Help him up. Now!" She yells, darting her eyes between the boys.

"Stop it!" Jack yells back at her, standing firmly with his arms crossed.

"Just do it. And apologize."

Jack lets down his hand resentfully to help Havel up. Havel wipes the snot from his upper lip and lets Jack pull him up.

"I'm sorry..." Jack says with lingering annoyance while extending a hand for Havel to shake.

"Me too," Havel says back, shaking his hand.

"Get him an ice pack for his side," MaryAnn says to Jack.

Jack brings an ice pack from the freezer to Havel like a mortician wheeling in the last body of his career.

"You're not my mom," Jack says to MaryAnn before walking off to his room.

MaryAnn watches him leave. It was true after all—and his red hair was a constant reminder of it.

"Don't be like this, Jack—" she says before his bedroom door slams shut.

...

Timon hears a knock at his office door.

"Come in," he calls out like a half-asleep librarian.

The door is opened slightly, and his secretary, Charles, leans through.

"I got some documents for you to sign, sir."

"Come in," he says.

Charles walks in wearing his iron-grey suit, holding a maroon plastic binder thick with documents and a newspaper, juggling them as he closes the door behind. Charles approaches Timon and tosses the newspaper on his desk before sitting down.

"Not looking so good, is it?" Charles says.

Timon grabs the paper and holds it to view. He sees in large bold letters: RUSSIA MAY DECLARE WAR ON UKRAINE.

Timon presses back in his chair. He hasn't been following the news lately, as it seldom affects his detached and privileged life — leading to his ignorance of the situation.

"Oh, my God..." Timon says under his breath.

"You think we will back them?" Charles asks.

"Jesus, I don't know."

"They're NATO. It's not unlikely we would help out."

In the American way, these men search out and cling to the latest yellow journalism like it were the nectar of a Venus flytrap.

Timon drops the paper to his desk and swats it aside, groaning. After reflecting, he changes the topic.

"Okay, what do you got?" he says in a low, hoarse voice.

Charles reaches into the binder and pulls out a small packet of papers. He flips through the packet and studies a page.

"Yeah—here you go," he says, handing over the packet, "some legal work for our California branch."

Timon surveys the paper and signs it, then hands it back.

"You hear from Phineas lately?" Charles asks while fitting the packet back into his binder.

The question confuses Timon, considering he hasn't talked to Phineas, his father, for years.

"No, not recently. I have hardly thought of him," Timon lies. "Why do you ask?"