Free Storm Gathering by Rene Gutteridge

things on his mind.
    But this is what he’d done his whole life. Crisis meant refocus. And why not refocus on things that hardly mattered in the world? If the ground hadn’t been wet, he’d probably start up the mower and mow the entire neighborhood.
    Kicking off his sneakers onto the front porch, Mick ran his fingers through his hair, specks of dirt falling onto his shoulders. A shower was in immediate order.
    He felt for his keys in his pocket, found them, and unlocked the door. When he didn’t hear the usual click, he tried again. Still no click. Pulling his key out, Mick blinked and hesitated, then turned the knob and swung the front door open.
    Standing on his porch, he tried to pedal his thoughts backward, beyond the bar, beyond Taylor’s, to yesterday afternoon when Aaron had come over to tell him the “good news.” Afterward, he’d left angrily. He remembered slamming the front door as he walked out. But had he locked it?
    Mick stepped inside, scanning what he could see of his small living room. TV and stereo were untouched. He threw his keys on the small table by the wall and shut the door.
    Switching on the light, he took one more good look around and decided he’d left the door unlocked. Wasn’t something he would normally do, but neither was slugging his brother, so there was not much he could count on about that day. Not much at all.
    Mick threw off his Windbreaker and went to the bathroom to shower. He opened the window above the tub. To him, there was nothing better than the smell after a hard rain. It soothed him as much as a long, hot shower.
    Steam filled the bathroom as Mick dumped his muddy clothes in the hamper in his bedroom and threw on his robe. Fatigue was setting in, and it wasn’t even evening. A quick shot of orange juice could do more than just about any other drink.
    Heading toward the kitchen, the steam of the shower dampened his forehead as he passed the bathroon. He stopped in the middle of the hallway and returned to his bedroom.
    His pajama bottoms were not at the bottom edge of his bed. They were near his hamper. Mick stood in thought. His pajama bottoms, without fail, were always at the end corner of his bed, because every morning he left them there when he sat on the edge to get dressed. It was one of those things that he knew would drive a future wife crazy.
    But that was two nights ago. Last night he had not come home. Had he kicked them out of the way inadvertently the day before? Not likely. He was more accustomed to stepping over all his clothing. Nobody would believe there was a science behind all those clothing piles.
    He scanned the rest of the bedroom. Dresser drawers were closed, but he opened each one anyway, trying to find something out of place.
    He moved to his closet, looking carefully at each section. Hangers had been moved. He sensed it. He knelt, trying to get an idea if anything was missing. In the back corner, he had a safe, filled only with baseball cards, but a thief would investigate it.
    Pushing the clothes aside, he saw the red metal, always flush against the back corner wall. It had been pulled out at least three inches.
    Mick scrambled to his feet, backing out of the closet and whipping around, trying to take in the whole room at once. He backed down the hallway and into the living room.
    There. His CD and VHS collection. Usually in a neat pile—nearly the only thing neat in his entire house—it was pushed sideways, leaning against the side of the stereo casing.
    The photo album under his coffee table that was always open to a picture of him and his mother and father on vacation in the Bahamas was now open to an old photo of him and Aaron at a baseball game, chummy arms around each other.
    Mick glanced at the entryway tile and bent over for a closer look. There—light brown footprints. From the mud. He followed the prints back to the kitchen. On the kitchen tile, the prints were barely visible, but he could feel them with his fingertips. Nothing