Thump. Thump. Thump. The tower of picture books crashes against the wall, and a rubber duck ricochets off Sausage's sleeping ear. Sausage doesn't flinch. He tucks his nose deeper under his paws and blinks one slow eye at the ceiling.
Tommy's fingertip taps the bare square on the far wall. Tap. Tap. Tap. He thinks: I don't have anything new. The wall just sits there, flat and painted and empty, while his finger keeps going.
Under the big bed, his hands come up sticky. A tangle of plastic bricks. A sock that smells like old cheese. A marble lost since March. He drags it all into a lopsided heap on the carpet, cheeks hollow.
He dumps the heap at the rug's edge and starts counting. One, two… Three comes out small. Flat. Like paper crumpled and dropped. Sausage lifts one heavy eye. Yawns, slow. Tommy's mouth is still open but the word is already gone.
Tommy flops back and squeezes the stuffed bear. Its stuffing shifts cold and damp between his palms. 'Okay. Fine. You're… mostly here,' he mumbles to the bear, to the room, to Sausage. The floor creaks. Sausage lifts his back leg in slow, deliberate arcs. Tommy stares up at the ceiling. Lips tight.
Sausage's hips shift. A rumble builds behind him, small-engine-warming-up, then: PFFFFFT. Long. Wet. Fills the whole room. Tommy's face crumples. He doubles over, slides off the bed, lands with a soft thud on the scattered books. His knee slaps his thigh. 'You're still disgusting,' he gasps.
The laughter hitches. Hitches again. Then stops. Sausage's tail swings once — slow, proud — and hangs still. Tommy's shoulders drop. The room goes quiet except for the tick of the nightstand clock and the faint smell of the pile that came from under the bed.
Tommy sits cross-legged in the books, the duck propped against his shin. Sausage pads over. Drops his heavy head on Tommy's knee. One long warm breath ruffles the hair. Outside, a car door slams shut. The wall behind them is just a wall. Nobody's looking.
