The "Cold War" had reached its peak. Communication in the house had devolved into grunts and the clattering of plates.
Maggie was the only one moving through the house with any urgency, her footsteps frantic as she packed sunblock, insect repellent, and lightweight linen shirts. She was trying to pack enough normalcy to drown out the abnormality of their lives.
Thomas walked into Lucas's room. He wasn't yelling anymore. He was in "Mission Prep" mode—cold, detached, logistical. He dropped a heavy, olive-drab backpack on the floor next to Lucas's bed.
"Pack your essentials," Thomas said. "And these."
He held out a pair of high-end hiking boots. Leather, waterproof, steel-toed. Heavy. Expensive. They were exactly what a soldier would wear on a long patrol. "Surrey might be damp, but Bangkok is a jungle. You'll need support if we're doing any excursions."
Lucas looked at the boots from his spot on the bed. They were practical. They were quality gear. They were exactly what a father who loved his son would buy him.
"I'm wearing my Vans," Lucas said, not looking up from his survival manual. "I don't hike. I walk."
"You'll break your ankles in the city," Thomas countered, his voice hard. "The sidewalks are uneven."
"My ankles, my problem."
Thomas let out a long, weary sigh. He placed the boots on the floor and turned to leave. "Suit yourself. But don't come crying to me when you can't walk."
The door clicked shut.
Lucas waited thirty seconds. He looked at the boots. Then he looked at the overflowing trash can in the corner.
With a sneer, he stood up, grabbed the boots, and shoved them deep into the trash can, burying them under empty crisp packets, crumpled soda cans, and old manga sketches.
He sat back down on the bed and opened his book. Five minutes passed.
Then, with a heavy, frustrated sigh that sounded suspiciously like his father's, Lucas stood up. He marched to the trash can, pulled the boots out, and wiped them clean on the back of his hoodie.
He wasn't stupid. He listened to the radio. He heard the words "riots" and "unrest." If the world was falling apart—and the radio said it was—he wasn't going to face it in canvas sneakers.
He stuffed the boots at the very bottom of his bag, hidden under a pile of oversized black hoodies. He would wear them. But he would never admit that his father was right.