Free Six by M.M. Vaughan

the lights in the room flickered on.
    Without waiting for them, Michael began to cross the space. Parker and Emma followed slowly behind, surveying the room as they walked. It was, other than the curved ceiling, much like a regular garage—only at least twenty times bigger. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, this floor, being underground, had no windows and therefore received no natural light. Instead stark white light shone down from the spotlights that ran the length of the room and bounced off the smooth gray floor and white walls, giving the space a clinical feel. At the other end of the room, opposite an open archway that Parker guessed led outside, three vehicles were parked side by side: the one that had picked them up that morning, a shiny red sports car, and a golf cart. Beyond that, a line of bikes hung from a rack mounted on the wall. Other than that, the room was empty. Parker’s eyes scanned the floor as he crossed it and found nothing—not a single leaf, nor a speck of dirt.
    â€œHow long have you lived here?” asked Parker.
    â€œI don’t know—about five years maybe. Why?”
    â€œIt’s just so”—Parker searched for the right word—“tidy.”
    â€œIt’s called minimalist.”
    â€œIt’s definitely that. Don’t you ever just feel like—I don’t know—throwing paint around or something?”
    â€œEr, no. Why? Is that what you do in your house?”
    â€œNo, of course not. It’s . . . oh, never mind. Hey, there’s my bike!”
    Brendan had hung Parker’s bike on the first slot of the rack. Next to it was the only bike that looked as if it had been used recently—a state-of-the-art mountain bike with mud-covered wheels.
    â€œThat must really bother you,” said Parker, grinning as he reached out and spun the wheel of the bike. A smattering of dried mud fell to the floor and Parker flinched.
    â€œI’m really sorry,” he said. He bent down and began to brush the mud into his hand.
    Michael gave Parker a quizzical look. “It’s okay—I don’t have a phobia about dirt or anything. You can leave it there.”
    â€œOh, okay. Good,” said Parker, brushing his hands and letting the dirt fall to the floor once more.
    â€œThough we will have to get the room disinfected now.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    â€œNo, of course not. You’re kind of weird, Parker.”
    Parker raised his hands and brushed the remainder of the dirt on his palm in the direction of Michael, whose knee-jerk reaction was to jump back.
    â€œTakes one to know one,” said Parker.
    He smiled as Emma tapped him on the shoulder.
    â€œThey all look too big for me,” signed Emma.
    Parker looked along the bike rack and saw that Emma was right. “Which one can Emma use?” he asked Michael. “I think they’re all too big. She can use mine if you don’t have one for her.”
    â€œNo, no, it’s fine. I’ve got one for her,” said Michael. He waved Emma over and pointed to a spot behind the golf cart. Leaving Emma to it, Parker turned his attention back to his own bike. He lifted it up off the rack and was about to swing his leg over to mount it when he heard a loud gasp. Parker turned and saw Michael standing by the golf cart, biting his thumb nervously.
    Parker quickly rested his bike against the wall and hurried over.
    Emma, Parker found, was standing next to a purple bike that was exactly the right size for her. Even if it hadn’t had a large red bow tied to the handlebars, Parker would have guessed anyway—from the gleaming paintwork and spotless tires—that it was brand-new.
    Emma ran her hands over the bow and turned to Parker with a confused look on her face.
    â€œIs it a gift?” she signed. Parker translated the question to Michael.
    â€œYes, but it’s not from me.”
    â€œYou bought my sister a