Saturday morning began with a disaster.
To be precise, in Liam's classification system, this was a "Minor Kitchen Incident – Level 2." Level 1 was spilled milk. Level 3 involved triggering the smoke alarm. This intermediate level was Emma's decision to invent "Prehistoric Breakfast Soup."
"I read about it!" Emma stood on a kitchen chair, brandishing a wooden spoon like a conductor's baton. "T-Rexes drank soup! And it had to have… rocks!"
"The reptilian digestive system is ill-suited for significant mineral intake." Liam tried to retrieve the jar of "magic pebbles" (actually colored stones collected from the park yesterday) she was about to pour in.
"They're magic rocks! They'll get soft when cooked!"
Sophia peered out from the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel, eyes sleepy. "I heard the phrase 'cooking rocks.' I dearly hope I misheard."
"It's a science experiment!" Emma corrected, successfully dumping three blue stones into the soup pot—the one Liam had intended for oatmeal.
For the next ten minutes, the kitchen became a hybrid archaeological dig and food lab. Liam attempted logic: rocks do not transmute into food via heat. Emma insisted "magic in stories is real." Sophia sipped her coffee, observing, laughing until she nearly choked.
"How about this," Sophia finally mediated. "We make real dinosaur soup. Potatoes for 'dinosaur eggs,' carrots for 'baby stegosauruses,' broccoli for 'the forest.'"
"What about the rocks?" Emma was unconvinced.
"The rocks are decoration." Liam compromised, retrieving a few genuine soup stones from a cabinet—smooth black river rocks used to keep soup warm. "But these are not for eating. Viewing only."
Emma accepted the terms. Thus, on Saturday morning, the Stone kitchen emitted a peculiar aroma: potato-carrot soup with black stones resting at the bottom, topped by broccoli arranged into a shape resembling either a dinosaur or a green cloud.
"Looks like a mysterious swamp ritual," Sophia commented, ladling bowls for everyone.
"It's a T-Rex's tea party!" Emma announced, blowing on her spoon. "Daddy, why did dinosaurs go extinct?"
Liam's mental database offered seventeen scientific explanations, from asteroid impact to climate shift. He chose the simplest. "Because the world changed, and they couldn't change with it."
"Can we change with it?"
"We're trying," Sophia answered for him, her fingers gently smoothing Emma's tousled hair.
The doorbell rang then.
The timing was wrong—soup unfinished, Emma mid-sentence in her new story about a "Brontosaurus choking on soup." Liam glanced at the clock: 10:47 a.m. Not the mail carrier, not Mrs. Martha, nor any familiar face expected at this hour on a weekend.
Through the peephole, he saw Olivia Chase.
Her style had changed today: jeans, a camel-colored sweater, hair in a casual ponytail. She looked like a friendly neighbor, not the aggressive reporter. No notebook in hand, but a paper bag bearing the logo of the local bakery.
"Again, Mr. Stone." Her smile seemed more natural than last time as the door opened. "I was in the neighborhood, picked up some fresh croissants. Thought I might… apologize for my previous intrusion?"
Her gaze slid past Liam's shoulder to Sophia and Emma in the dining area. "Oh, you're having breakfast. I'm interrupting."
"We're having dinosaur soup!" Emma slid off her chair and ran to the door. "Want some? It has magic rocks!"
Olivia laughed—a genuine laugh, wrinkles forming at her eyes, shoulders relaxing. "Magic rocks? I simply must see this."
Sophia approached, her hand coming to rest naturally on Liam's shoulder. He felt the pressure of her fingers—not tension, but alertness.
"Ms. Chase," Sophia said, her voice polite but distant. "What can we do for you?"
"Truly, just passing by." Olivia lifted the bag. "And… I may be overstepping. I looked into your husband's art program. The materials budget seems tight. I know a few trustees at a local arts foundation. Perhaps I could help."
The reason was too perfect, perfectly suspicious. Liam's mind analyzed rapidly: offering unsolicited help, lowering defenses, building trust—a classic approach strategy.
"Please, come in," Sophia said, stepping aside. Liam glanced at her; she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head: See what she wants.
Thus, the Saturday morning dinosaur soup table gained an uninvited guest and a bag of croissants.
"So," Olivia bit into a croissant, crumbs dusting her sweater, which she brushed away absently, "Emma, do these rocks really have magic?"
Emma nodded solemnly. "They tell stories in the soup. The blue one saw a volcano erupt. The red one got stepped on by a Brontosaurus."
"And this black one?" Olivia pointed to the soup stone in her bowl.
"That's… the night rock! It knows all the dinosaurs' dreams!"
Olivia laughed, the sound clear and pleasant. She turned to Sophia. "Your daughter has a wonderful imagination. Like her father."
The air thickened, just for a heartbeat.
"Liam's art does require imagination," Sophia said calmly, spooning more soup. "But he's better at turning imagination into tangible form. Metal doesn't lie, right, darling?"
Liam nodded. "Metal only reveals its nature. You must understand it, not force a story upon it."
"Like people," Olivia said, her gaze lingering on Liam's face for a second. "Sometimes we think we're writing the story, when we're only reading a text already written."
The words carried weight. Liam's spoon tapped lightly against his bowl with a faint ting.
"Speaking of stories," Olivia continued, her tone light as chat about the weather, "I'm working on a column about 'Chicago's Unsung Heroes.' People quietly changing their communities. Mr. Stone, your art class altered trajectories for many kids. Especially Kyle Miller—I interviewed him yesterday."
Liam's breathing pattern didn't change, but he felt Sophia's foot nudge his ankle under the table. A signal: Pay attention.
"Kyle is a talented young man," Liam said. "He just needed direction."
"That's what he said." Olivia pulled her phone from her pocket, calling up a photo—Kyle at the auto shop, standing beside a vintage motorcycle under restoration, beaming. "He said you taught him more than welding. You taught him 'broken things can be fixed, but the repair leaves a mark, and the mark is part of the story.'"
Liam had indeed said that. One afternoon, when Kyle was frustrated by a weld seam.
"Beautiful philosophy," Sophia remarked.
"Yes." Olivia put her phone away. "But interestingly, Kyle mentioned something else. He said you once told him you understood what it felt like to 'feel like a monster.'"
Liam's spoon paused mid-air. He remembered the conversation. Kyle had raged, "I'm not like any of you! I'm a monster!" And he had replied, "I've been seen that way too. But 'monster' is just a word. Labels can be torn off."
"Every child feels out of place sometimes," Liam said evenly. "What matters is letting them know different isn't defective."
Olivia nodded, but her eyes grew inquisitive. "Kyle also said you never ask 'Why are you angry?' but 'What shape does your anger want to take?' A distinctive method. Learn it from someone?"
There it was. The real probe.
"Self-taught," Liam said. "Emotion is like metal—it has a melting point, tensile strength, can be shaped. You just need the right technique."
"Like you've shaped your own life," Olivia said softly.
The words settled, leaving a brief silence at the table. Only the sound of Emma stirring her soup, stones clicking against ceramic.
Then Emma looked up, innocent. "Were you ever called a monster, lady?"
Olivia blinked, then smiled, this one tinged with bitterness. "Yes, sweetheart. When I decided to be a reporter. Some people think curious women are like monsters."
"What shape did your anger take?"
Olivia looked at Emma, her expression softening. "Words. Lots of words. I put them on paper so they wouldn't run wild inside me."
"Like Daddy welds metal into dinosaurs!"
"Yes," Olivia touched Emma's head. "Just like that."
The soup was finished. Half the croissants remained. As Olivia helped clear the bowls, she said casually, "Oh, almost forgot the main reason." She drew an envelope from the bottom of the paper bag. "Nomination forms for our paper's annual 'Light of the Community' award. I'd like to nominate you, Mr. Stone."
Liam took the envelope. The thickness was wrong—too bulky for a few sheets of paper.
"Some reference materials inside," Olivia added, her gaze meaningful. "About past winners. You might find it… interesting."
After she left and the door closed, the house held just the three of them again.
"What does she want?" Sophia murmured, staring at the door.
Liam opened the envelope. The nomination form was on top. Beneath it… photocopies of photographs.
The first: A younger Professor Richard Green in his lab, standing beside an unfinished metal sculpture. The shape bore a startling resemblance to Liam's current studio piece, Home.
The second: The 2007 Seattle Arts Center exhibition hall. A blurred figure in the corner, resembling Liam, but unverifiable.
The third: A photocopy of a handwritten letter, script hurried. "Lucas, if you're reading this, I'm gone. Remember, art is just another language for truth. Don't let them steal your language. – R. Green"
The final page was not a photo, but a fragment of a police report, a single line circled in red: "Subject displays behavioral markers consistent with affective recognition disorder. Unable to establish reliable emotional baseline."
Report date: March 20, 2007.
Signed by: Consulting Psychometric Analyst—Harold Jenkins.
"Jenkins," Sophia read the name, her brow furrowing. "I've seen that name. In the old files. He was…"
"A senior consultant for the Walker Foundation." Liam finished, his own calmness surprising him. "And the 'expert witness' for the original case."
Sophia's head snapped up. "How do you know that?"
Liam's mind screamed danger, but his mouth had already answered: "Olivia's earlier reporting mentioned it. She said the Walker Foundation was deeply involved in the initial investigation."
Half-truth. He had read it in the reports, but he knew Jenkins for deeper reasons.
Sophia stared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "Right. I remember now." But the suspicion in her eyes didn't fully dissipate.
Emma tugged Sophia's sleeve. "Mommy, can I build a little dragon next to the snowman?"
"Of course, sweetie." Sophia took a deep breath, stuffing the photos back into the envelope. "Let's go build a snow dragon. Daddy needs to… handle these nomination papers."
She helped Emma into her coat, glancing back at Liam. Her eyes said: We talk later.
Liam stood alone in the kitchen, holding the incriminating photos. Outside, snow had begun again, fine and quiet, as if trying to bury something.
He walked to the counter, opened the bottom drawer—the one for utensil liners. Moving the liner aside revealed a thin metal compartment. Pressing a hidden catch, it sprang open.
Inside lay only two things: an old photograph and a rusted key.
The photo showed two boys, around ten years old, standing under an oak tree. One blond, one dark-haired.
The key had a faded plastic tag, handwritten script barely legible: "Locker 47, Seattle Central Station."
Unopened for fifteen years.
Perhaps should never be opened.
But Olivia Chase was circling the truth. Sophia was nearing it. And the "brother" who appeared in the snowy night was a reminder: time was running out.
Upstairs, Emma's laughter drifted down, mixed with Sophia's gentle urging. Liam pushed the metal compartment shut, replaced the liner, closed the drawer.
He walked to the window, looking into the backyard. The snowman still stood, its orange hat half-buried in fresh snow. Emma was rolling a small snowball beside it, Sophia helping shape it.
A perfect picture. A perfect family. A perfect lie.
His fingers tapped lightly against the windowpane, a steady rhythm: tap, tap, tap.
He made a decision, in the quiet of his mind.
If the storm was coming, he would ensure they were in its eye—the calmest, safest place.
Even if it meant he had to stand at the storm's forward edge.
Turning from the window, he nearly stepped on something on the floor. Looking down, he saw a single blue pebble, escaped from Emma's "magic rock" collection.
He picked it up, closing his fist around it. The stone was cold, but held long enough, it would warm to his touch.
Like lies, told long enough, could become a different kind of truth.
He slipped the stone into his pocket and walked to the porch to join his wife and daughter, to build a snow dragon that would never fly away.
In the snow, Emma handed him a small shovel. "Daddy, how do we build the dragon's wings?"
"We must consider aerodynamics and structural integrity," Liam took the shovel. "But first, they should look like they could carry you anywhere you want to go."
Emma's eyes lit up. "Could it take me to see real dinosaurs?"
"In your imagination, yes." Liam began to shovel snow. "And in reality, we can visit the Natural History Museum. Next week."
"Really?" Emma cheered.
Sophia looked at him, smiling, but with unasked questions in her eyes.
Liam nodded to her: Really.
At least that promise was true.
The snow continued to fall, covering footprints, covering traces, covering all the unspoken words of this Saturday morning in Chicago.
And in the café across the street, Olivia Chase sat by the window, watching the family of three play in the snow. Before her sat a cooled cup of coffee and an open notebook.
On the latest page, a single line:
"What is he protecting? Or, who is he protecting?"
Outside, the snow fell heavier, as if trying to turn the entire city into a clean, secretless white.