Paul DeSoto banged into the house and tossed his
jacket onto a chair, the family philosophy of tidiness
being to utilize the nearest surface. He was grimy and
dusty from a long day at the site and wanted nothing
more than to get into a steamy shower, but he noticed
that the house was dark and quiet. The kids hadn't
started dinner again, and he was damned hungry!
He found Bryan in his bedroom. "Hey, Wisenheimer,"
said Paul, using his name for anyone he discovered
reading (even if it was a Penthouse magazine, Bryan's
current material of choice). "Get dinner ready."
Bryan, who'd managed to shield the content of his
magazine, grunted as he watched his father walk
toward the bathroom. Then he slid the magazine under
his mattress, made sure his boner went down, and
went into the kitchen as the sound of running water
filled the house.
Bryan didn't know how to cook anything but frozen
dinners, but luckily that was all the DeSotos ever
bought. He opened the freezer and pulled out three and
was just popping them into the oven as his father
strode into the room with a towel around his waist. The
older man looked strangely concerned about
something.
"Hey, Bry, where's that old bathroom scale we had?"
"Dunno. Why?"
"Oh, uh. Just think I lost a little weight, that's all."
"Oh."
Bryan straightend up from arranging the dinners in the
oven just as his father passed him to leave the room.
They were suddenly face to face in the small space,
and it was clear that Paul, always a little shorter than
his son, was suddenly shorter still. The top of his head
came just to Bryan's chin.
They stared at each other in dawning horror until Brett
came into the house.