Rage swept through him, red and tarry, blotting out everything else, and before he could switch gears, before he could call his mom or Ben, before he could get to the gym and hit the heavy bag, before the quick brown fox could jump over anything, the red tar was everywhere and he was drowning in it. A far-off, still-calm part of his brain guided him to the cabinets. He heard a smashing noise and more yelling, and there was pain in his foot, a distant pain, and then he slipped and his head thunked against the floor and he was out.

HE WOKE UP to Pebbles licking his face. Her breath was awful. “Hi, puppy,” he said, and his throat was sore and scratchy. Also, something was sticking into his back.

He was lying on the kitchen floor.

He sat up, wincing, and felt the back of his head. A good-sized lump was there. And there were shards of porcelain everywhere.

Polka-dotted porcelain.

He picked up a piece and looked at it. Lauren’s coffee cup. She’d used it every morning. Actually, she’d bought four of them, because, she’d said, they’d be everyone’s favorite. And they had been. Even his mother had liked them, and she wasn’t a person who cared a whole lot about mugs. He remembered a weekend morning when Lauren had had her “three moms” over for coffee cake, and they’d all drunk from these mugs.

From the look of the mess on the floor, he’d broken each one. Yep. Four little handles scattered amid the ironically cheerful destruction.

There was a knock on his door. He went to it, limping slightly, and opened it. Creepy Charlotte.

“Hey, I heard some noise. You okay?” She looked him up and down. “You’re bleeding, you know.”

“Stop stalking me, Charlotte.”

For a second, he wondered if Gertie the Medium had meant Charlotte, but if so, he would take that $500 back, thank you very much. He closed the door in her face, went back to the kitchen and surveyed the mess.

Nice job, asshole.

If Pebbles stepped on the broken mugs, she might cut her paw. He put her in the guest room to keep her safe, though she gave him a disappointed look. “Sorry, honey. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The cut on the bottom of his foot was fairly deep. He cleaned it out with hydrogen peroxide, welcoming the burn as punishment, and wrapped it in gauze. Then he cleaned up the kitchen and bloody footprints.

No more of Lauren’s mugs to taunt him from the cupboard each day, and a new scratch in the floor from his rage.