Seventeen

Not like this.

He grimaced, like what then?

The anchor continued her monologue, Ted tuned out. Always another crisis, a small country on fire half a world away, a bombing two towns over. Grass grows, sun shines, people are shitty.

Opening a newspaper, flicking until he found a headline and started circling letters. Scribbling them on the top of a notepad as he went. Did any of it go the way anyone wanted? Some people, probably.

Grabbing the next newspaper from the stack, finding another article, underlining letters, writing them down. He was being cynical, the musty air was getting to him, maybe a trip to…

Was that right?

Checking the circled letters, underlined. No, it couldn’t be.

Swap the letters. That did nothing. It must be correct.

“Fuck.”

The TV kept speaking as he jammed yet another newspaper in the toaster, turning the stoves on full blast. Tipping a container of nail polish remover on the table as he left, Ted grabbed his jacket and slammed the door.

An apartment building fire didn’t make the 6 o’clock headlines. There was a shooting at a shopping mall, a celebrity had a baby, grass was still growing, the sun was still shining.