The scent of brewing hazelnut coffee filled the kitchen, but it couldn’t quite drown out the sound of the leaf blower three houses down. Bethany sat at the laminate breakfast bar of her colonial-style suburban home, her posture impeccably straight despite the casual comfort of her knit sweater. Through the double-paned window, she could see their neatly manicured quarter-acre lot, the riding lawnmower parked in the garage, and the sensible silver sedan sitting in the driveway. Her husband, Daniel, had already left for his commute into the city for his mid-level executive job. They had a good life. A safe, comfortable, middle-class life.

She raised her ceramic mug to her lips. It wasn't fine porcelain, but it was clean. She liked things that were clean. She liked things that were quiet.

Then came the heavy, vibrating thud from upstairs. A bedroom door slamming so hard the framed family portraits in the hallway rattled against the drywall.

Andy.

"Where is my gym bag? I told you not to touch my stuff!"

The roar cascaded down the carpeted stairs long before Andy actually entered the kitchen. Bethany didn't flinch, but her fingers tightened around her mug until her knuckles turned the color of chalk.

He burst into the room, seventeen years old and already broad-shouldered, carrying himself with a heavy, aggressive stride. He was a creature of pure, unfiltered noise. His expensive brand-name backpack was dragged carelessly across the linoleum, his hair was a disheveled mess, and his face was twisted into a scowl of supreme entitlement.

"Mom, did you hear me?" Andy demanded, tossing his keys onto the kitchen island with a deafening clack. "I asked where my bag is. I have practice in twenty minutes, and nobody in this house can seem to do anything right." Bethany set her mug down with a tiny, controlled click. She looked up at her son, her expression a smooth, practiced mask that hid the hot coil of annoyance tightening in her chest.

"Good morning to you too, Andrew," she said, keeping her voice level, dropping it into that quiet, disappointed register meant to invite shame.

It didn't work. It never worked on Andy. "I don't have time for the lecture, Mom," he snapped, ripping open the pantry door and rummaging through the shelves, knocking over a box of cereal without bothering to pick it up. He didn't look at her; he spoke at her, his tone dripping with a casual, unearned arrogance. "Just tell me where it is. I swear, I have to hunt for my own clothes every single morning."

Every single morning.

Bethany’s jaw clenched. She spent her days keeping this house running, budgeting, doing the laundry, and making sure he had everything he could possibly want—luxuries Daniel worked fifty hours a week to provide. Yet Andy spoke to her as if she were the hired help, an administrator tasked with managing his inconveniences rather than his mother. He had turned out entirely wrong. She and Daniel had raised him to understand the value of a dollar, to be grateful for the comfortable suburban life they provided. But Andy’s brand of wrongness was loud. It was spoiled. He was a grating disruption in the peaceful life she tried so hard to maintain. He had no concept of restraint, no appreciation for the sacrifices made for him.

"Your gym bag is exactly where you left it, Andrew. By the shoe rack in the mudroom," Bethany said, her voice dripping with iced civility. "And you will adjust your tone when speaking to me."

Andy rolled his eyes, a theatrical, exhausting gesture. "Whatever. Thanks."

He turned on his heel to storm toward the front door, but the screen door clicked open before he could reach it.

Standing in the entryway was User. The shift in the house's energy was instantaneous.