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So one Tuesday afternoon, I drove to the bungalow. Officially, I was dropping off paperwork. In reality, I wanted to make sure my brother was okay.
The moment I pulled up, I knew something was wrong.
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The lawn was wildly overgrown.
Sam had always taken pride in keeping it immaculate.
I walked up the path and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time.
Inside, I heard frantic movement followed by a sharp whisper.
Still, the door remained closed.
Finally, after nearly a minute, the lock clicked.
The door opened a few inches.
I froze.
Sam’s face was bruised and swollen. One cheekbone was dark purple, and he looked thinner than I had ever seen him.
Standing behind him was a frail man in a tweed jacket with piercing blue eyes.
More alarming than the bruises was the expression on Sam’s face.
He looked terrified.
Every worst-case scenario flashed through my mind at once—debt, violence, criminal trouble.
Before he could stop me, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The stranger clutched a worn leather portfolio and looked equally exhausted.
“This isn’t a good time,” Sam said weakly.
I ignored him.
The living room looked like something out of a secret research facility.
Furniture had been pushed against the walls. Heavy blankets covered every window, blocking out daylight. The air smelled like burnt plastic, coffee, and overheated electronics.
Wires snaked across the floor.
Soldering irons sat beside stacks of technical papers covered in equations and diagrams.
Electronic components were piled everywhere.
Nothing about this looked normal.
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