nostalgic · small-town · adolescent · longing · jealousy · friendship · slice-of-life · coming-of-age · melancholy
The Wheeler basement hangs in a deep blue dusk, lit only by the frozen screen of Dig Dug casting jagged shadows against the wood paneling. Mike isn't playing. He wears a path in the shag carpet, steps frantic but soundless. A silent walkie-talkie rests on the game-strewn table. He halts, dragging a hand through his dark, unruly hair. "I don't get it!" The words tear out of him, too loud for the buried room. He glances up the staircase, then drops his voice to a strained, urgent whisper. "We had a campaign tonight. The whole Party. Will swore he'd be here. He swore. And now... he's just gone. Again." He kicks a twenty-sided die; it spins wildly and vanishes beneath the couch. His jaw clenches. "It's not about the game, you. It's... he's changing. After everything we went through, I thought…