Free Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe Page B

century. Just don’t let the stew overcook, okay? There’s nothing worse than eating rubber for dinner.”
    When she goes, I arrange the timers on the tables, my eyes darting between them, fixing the numbers. One by one, they ding, and I spend the rest of the evening listening to the metronomic tick-tick-tick of the windup timer until its hammer bangs against a tinny bell. I turn off the stove and wait for the food to cool. I lay my head on the table and close my eyes, already wishing it was Saturday so I could get it all over with.
    It’s after ten when everything is finally cool and packed away. I bring the food out to the garage, to the deep freeze, where Dad sits at his workbench, carving something on the front of a newly sanded chest. Wood shavings curl, dropping to the floor like petals. His back is curved over the bench in an arc.
    I place the food in the freezer and step away silently, leaving him in the sanctuary of his garage. Kasey’s gone to bed. The only sounds are the tick of the grandfather clock and the sighs of the wind on the windows. I walk upstairs and head to the cocoon of my room so I don’t break the shell of silence.

Thirty-Seven Out of Order
    Friday, 2:23 a.m.
    And one second. Two twenty-three. Two plus two is four plus three is seven. OK. Two minus two is zero plus three is three. OK. Two times twenty-three is forty-six minus two is forty-four minus three is forty-one. OK. Fifty-five, fifty-six.
    I turn from the clock. Just as I mentally count, it turns to 2:24.
    My watch is on the nightstand next to the clock.
    I feel like I’m forgetting something. When that happens, it’s like everything gets stuck—the cogs on the clock stop until my mind grasps what it needs and can start to work again.
    When I close my eyes, I see numbers imprinted on my lids, so I rework them, calculate, add, subtract.
    Fuckit.
    I get up and take down three clocks from the closet, putting the boxes back and shutting the door. Two need batteries.
    The room feels like it’s getting smaller, like the ticks on my watch pound in my ears. I pull open the window and pop the screen off, sticking my head outside, sucking in the night air, squeezing my eyes so that all the stars blur into one.
    Count the lights.
    That always helps. It breaks the numbers. Going for a walk, counting the lights in houses. The muscle in my right thigh spasms.
    So fucking tired.
    I don’t want to freeze my balls off wandering around west Carson City counting houses that have lights on, so I flick on the TV, leaving the window open.
    The clocks are lined up under the window.
    Just in case.
    Just in case?
    Bourdain’s in Uzbekistan.
    I’ve seen this one before and turn on the captions so Dad doesn’t hear. I wonder if Mera’s watching it.
    I bet she is.
    And that actually makes me feel better, knowing I’m not the only asshole in the world that can’t sleep.
    The red numbers glow at me from my bedside clock and I finally turn it away, facing the window after I’ve gone through all the prime numbers up to seven hundred thirty-three three times to match the time when I took off my watch and shoved it into my backpack this morning. I fall asleep during the part when Bourdain is baby shopping, carrying around a crib and blanket.
    They rush into the room, flicking on the light and ripping open the blinds to predawn’s purple-black sky. “SURPRISE!”
    “Get out of bed, Martin. We’re being hijacked for breakfast.” Luc stands at the foot of the bed in his pajamas, surrounded by cheerleaders. He shrugs and mouths, “I had no idea.” He half smiles. “C’mon, man. It’s time to break tradition. Loosen up a little.” He’s wearing the same T-shirt he wore yesterday and smells like it. Black stubble dots his chin. Not many guys at school actually need to shave.
    Luc does.
    It’s supposed to be tomorrow—the day of the game. They always do the surprise breakfast thing the day of the game. And that way I’m prepared for them to come. That