He long ago gave up calling out a ‘hello’ whenever he gets home. Once upon a time it resulted in Mum calling something cute right back at him before coming through from the living room, or upstairs, or wherever to hear about his day. Now, noise tends to alert Father to Caleb’s presence, and the boy prefers to get in and get to his bedroom with the minimum of fuss. He doesn’t want to know what happened in the garage, doesn’t care if there was a scuffle when Father threw the intruder out on the street. So he enters via the back door, kicks off his trainers on the mat in the kitchen, and heads upstairs without seeing that the front door is open.
Caleb doesn’t intend to stay home for long.
He needs to get back out there. He has to be in the graveyard. So what if she told him not to follow? So what if her granddad and his goons might be lurking around and looking for him? A million ‘so whats’. There are measurements and drawings and investigations that will not wait. There are things that must be found out, and Caleb has to record it all.
He must.
Must, must, must.
In a minute.
As soon as he’s got up off the bed. Only a minute or two. He’s thinking about what to do next. Closing his eyes to think. A couple of minutes while he makes a decision about something. Whatever it is. Important. That’s what it is, important. But it can wait. Five minutes.
That’s all.