“Shit,” he muttered. He reached for a knob at the bottom and twisted it a fraction of a degree to the left. Any more, and when he opened it the next morning, he’d discover a magical portal to the Sahara Desert. Zack pulled a half-frozen beer from the top shelf. He twisted off the cap and tossed it in a nearby trash can before heading back into the living room.

Ziggy moved dutifully over as soon as Zack made it clear he was going to sit whether the dog was there or not. Ziggy pressed his cold nose into Zack’s armpit.

“Weirdo,” Zack said, ruffling the dog’s long fur. He set his beer down on the coffee table and picked up the remote. He pressed the power button and watched the TV flicker to life. It was a square, ancient-looking thing reminiscent of an age before widescreens and HD. After the loss of his first few TVs, he’d stopped shelling out for the good stuff. He reached for his beer, took a sip, and began flipping through channels.

“Ah, the joys of a decent cable package,” he said.

Ziggy nudged him and made a whining noise.

“I know, I know,” Zack cooed. “You think I let the hot cable guy talk me into upgrading, but this is the only nice thing we own. A man needs his entertainment after a long day of listening to strange men masturbate.”

Ziggy gave him a look that Zack swore was affronted.

“You want me to spend all our money on chew toys, don’t you?”

Ziggy barked.

“I knew it.”

Zack’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He set his beer down again and dug the phone out of his jeans. The caller ID read Mom.

Zack answered, “Hey, good timing. I just got home.”

“Hi, Zack, it’s Mom.”

“I know, Mom. Remember caller ID? We talked about caller ID.”

“Yes, I remember. Listen, sweetie, are you coming to dinner this Sunday?”

Zack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be there, just like I said I would be. I’d tell you if my plans had changed.”

“Well, forgive me for liking to know ahead of time how many mouths I’m going to have to feed.”

Zack could perfectly picture his mother. She always called people from an old-fashioned, wall-mounted phone in her kitchen. Her hair—the same dark shade as Zack’s—would be tied back with a red bandana. She’d have a white apron thrown over her clothes and a hand perched on her hip. Maybe even a smudge of flour on her swarthy, freckled cheek. He’d seen her adopt that pose thousands of times throughout his childhood and well into his adult life. It was her well-meant-scolding pose.

“All right, Mom, I promise I’ll be there. What are we having?”

“Spaghetti.”

“But Mom,” Zack sputtered, “that’s too risky! We only have spaghetti every other time we get together!”

Mom laughed. “I know, I know. Your father keeps buying meatballs by the dozen. What am I supposed to do?”