supplicium post mortem

He sat in the wing-chair, window open, admitting the sounds of assassin croquet. A timid rap on the door announced his second-eldest.

“Justin said you had a question?” Her tone conveyed mistrust of her younger brother, in this and everything.

He gestured to the footstool. She approached but did not sit.

“What?” she demanded, injured innocence.

“I’m wondering,” he said idly, “whom you are texting in the middle of the night.”

She crossed her arms. “No one. And if Justin says different, then you should talk to him about lying.”

“Differently,” he correctly. “Do you mean to say you aren’t texting after bedtime?”

“I’m not stupid, Dad.” Her voice exasperated, and so very plausible, as usual.

She’d talked him into the unlimited plan, promising to pay for it herself with earnings from her job at The Sno-Kone, and having agreed she would not violate her bedtime. He’d agreed, unwisely he saw now. He’d never been through this with his eldest daughter, who was too busy with her violin in Aspen this summer to be tempted by technology. His soon-to-be tenth grader, however…

“This plan is excellent,” he said. “You can’t exceed the limit, so we can avoid the run-ins that plagued us last year.”

She blushed and scowled. “That was the point, Dad.”

He reached for a paper on his desk. “Also, they provide the most helpful itemized bills, date, time and source of each text.” She blanched, and then burst into tears. “I think you’d better go cut a switch,” he said, setting the gas bill back on his desk.

Read other folks writing this week:

• Travis King
• Frenchies
• Rafi
• Nettagyrl
• Papatomla