There's a peculiar kind of calm that comes after escaping death. It wraps itself around your bones like smoke—light, temporary, but never fully gone. And in that calm, laughter feels sharper. A little too loud in the quiet.
Elliot was so bored this morning, he started trying to balance a spoon on his nose.
"I swear to God, if you drop that on me again, I will cut you," Anika grumbled, arms crossed, legs up on the coffee table.
"I'm not aiming for you," Elliot said defensively, wobbling slightly as the spoon tilted. "It's called 'spoon mastery.' Mr. Angel would've appreciated the dexterity the skill gives."
I snorted.
"Mr. Angel," I said, my voice rolling into the singsong madness of Mr. Jester, "would've declared you a national threat and had the utensil tried for conspiracy."
Elliot giggled.
Anika rolled her blindfolded eyes. "What does that even mean?"
