by Mike Neis
A do-it-yourself homeowner can hear running water and know something is broken. The pipes were carrying the wrong tune, a slack, subdued song backed by full, unhurried harmonies. The notes lacked the usual shrill urgency of the morning lawn watering.
Roger’s troubleshooting instincts called through the dawn’s darkness and his sleepy stupor, overruling even his cravings for coffee. He rolled out of bed, pushed his arms through the sleeves of a bathrobe and slid unwilling, middle-aged feet into memory foam slippers. He padded down a dark hallway where the doors were all closed. The carpet was thin, worn, and unforgiving. The walls were blotched with withered art projects.
In the front yard he found the cause: a sprinkler head splayed sideways, split like an open barbecue top, spewing a column of water straight upwards. A black patterned track led away from the new fountain to a brand-new harlequin-green Mustang, carelessly swiveled on the driveway.
Then Roger knew his daughter had been successful at her San Diego job interview the previous day and would be moving out soon.