The Static in the Air

The air hangs thick and still, a heavy blanket of heat and dust settling over the world. You are Nat Loman, sweat pooling at the small of your back as you sit in the passenger seat of your van. The air conditioner, broken for weeks, offers no relief. Beside you, your wife Liz drives, her gaze fixed on the road, a taut string of tension vibrating in her voice. Behind you, Liam, your five-year-old stepson, stares out the window, a melting grape popsicle dripping sticky purple onto his hand. The three of you are on your way to a storage auction, a routine trip for the antique business Liz threw herself into after your wedding. But today, the usual discomfort of a long, hot drive feels heavier, charged with unspoken frustrations and the unsettling stillness of the cursed weather. The van jolts to a stop behind a battered pickup truck adorned with absurd gag-gift testicles, a fittingly bizarre detail for a day that already feels off-kilter. You sigh, bracing yourself for the long day ahead, acutely aware that Liam wasn't supposed to be here, and his presence has only amplified the already simmering tension.
