Saturday woke up soft. The kitchen smelled like pancakes and dish soap. Debbie swayed to a song that only used three chords and all of her patience. Nolan read the paper like it was a puzzle that owed him answers. Mark came downstairs already bouncing, track bag thumping his hip.
"Wish me luck," he said, grinning like luck was the backup plan.
"You don't need luck," Debbie said. "You need laces double-knotted."
"Affirmative," Mark saluted, then to Stephen: "You coming?"
Stephen shook his head. "Mom needs a casserole courier." He held up the covered dish like a holy relic.
"Tragic," Mark said. "You'll miss my glorious mediocrity."
"Text me your split times," Stephen replied, dead serious.
"That's nerd for 'I love you,'" Mark told Debbie, then kissed her cheek and bolted.
Nolan folded the paper, eyes flicking to the sun warming the porch rail. "Don't linger barefoot," he said, gentle as gravity. "The concrete gets hot."
"I'll wear shoes," Stephen said. Rule Nineteen hummed in his head: Eat when everyone eats. He forked one pancake into his mouth because the rule wasn't about hunger; it was about belonging.
_ _ ♛ _ _
They left the house armed with a casserole and a shopping list, Debbie's tote bag bristling with coupons and competence. The neighbourhood had a lawn mower chorus going. Maple leaves clapped. Somewhere a dog argued with a squirrel and lost.
"Mrs. Albright first," Debbie said, "then the market. If we're strategic, we'll be back before the game."
"Which one?" Stephen asked.
"All of them," she said.
They cut down the alley behind Maple. Paint peeled on fences like sunburn. A garage a block ahead ticked and groaned with the sound of old wood… and something else—thin and whispering, like a tea kettle that couldn't make up its mind. Stephen slowed.
Smell found him next, sneaky and sweet-wrong: rotten eggs. His body filed it under nope before his brain did.
"Mom?" he said, quiet and careful. "Do you smell that?"
Debbie sniffed, smile flattening. "Gas."
The garage belonged to the Diaz duplex—white paint, blue trim, two bikes laid out like crossed swords beside the door. Through the high vent slats, Stephen saw a stutter of pale flame, not big yet. Not loud.
His heart sped up. His hands wanted to be hands.
"Back," Debbie said, already pulling her phone. "We don't go in."
Rule Twenty-One lit up in his head: Never be the only witness to your own miracle. Call someone. Make noise.
"911," Debbie told the air. "Maple and 3rd, we smell gas at the Diaz garage, small flame visible through the vent. We're clearing the area."
The words were calm the way bridges are. Stephen loved her for that.
"Mr. Diaz!" Debbie shouted, moving to the front gate without crossing it. "Mrs. Diaz! It's Debbie from Hawthorne—come out!"
A window scraped. Mrs. Diaz—apron, phone, eyes surprised into wide—appeared. "Que?"
"Gas leak," Debbie called, hand cupped to her mouth. She used the shape of the words more than the words. "Out! Now. Todos—afuera."
Mrs. Diaz's face changed expression like a page turning. She nodded hard and vanished. The front door coughed out a boy in pajama shorts, then a girl with a backpack in one shoe, then Mrs. Diaz herself, one hand on a toddler swaddled in pink blanket fury.
The garage hissed a little louder.
Stephen put his own body between the family and the garage without looking like that's what he was doing. He pointed—not at the flame, but down the street where the neighbor's yard opened wide. "There," he said. Debbie echoed with her whole arm, marshalling.
"Move cars?" Mrs. Diaz panted, keys rattling logic into fear. "I move—"
"No cars," Debbie said. "Let the firefighters do it."
A siren began somewhere close, the sound threading between houses like a red line drawn fast. Stephen's ears found the exact street before his eyes did. He stepped back another two paces because Rule Fifteen: Don't test things you can't untest.
The garage door shuddered and coughed smoke under its lip. He felt the impulse to do something in his legs. He put his palms out like he was pushing it away from his skin.
"Hey, princesa," he told the toddler, voice light, "wanna play a game? Big breaths with me. Like blowing bubbles. Ready? In…"
She watched him, suspicious, then mimicked his chest, tiny and perfect. He breathed slow four-counts because sometimes heroism is contagious and lungs can be leaders.
[Neighborly — Maple & 3rd]: smoke by Diaz garage???
[reply]: calling it in now
[reply]: bring pets out too!
[reply]: Mr. Alvarez on his way?
[reply]: yes, volunteer fire, he's rolling from the school
"Of course he is," Stephen said, because the universe likes continuity.
Engine 3 took the corner like it had been practicing. Mr. Alvarez hopped off the back with two others, helmet on, key ring traded for a Halligan bar. He met Debbie's eyes, then Stephen's. "You two are very good at being in the right place not too close."
"Trying to make a habit," Debbie said.
"Everyone out?" the captain asked, already peeling off tasks. "Gas main?"
"Everyone's out," Debbie said, pointing to the huddle. "Smell started five minutes ago."
"Main is on the curb," Mr. Alvarez added, already moving. "Shutoff."
Stephen watched the firefighters work—received the speed of it like a lesson. No rushing, just decision. One cut to the main. One hand signal. One fire blanket while another man cracked the side door into the garage in a triangle that didn't feed the flame air it wanted.
The garage door had a frozen wheel and an opinion. It sang wrong in the hinge. Stephen did not step forward. He held the toddler's eyes instead and counted breaths. "In… two… three… four. Out… two… three… four."
"Good job," he told her on the third round, because reinforcing small heroics was a rule even if he hadn't written it.
There was a pop like a soda can losing its temper. Flame hesitated inside and then went out the way a TV does when someone sensible hits the button. The hiss fell off a cliff.
"All clear," the captain called a few minutes later, voice a command and a lullaby. "Ventilate and we're done."
Mr. Alvarez rolled his shoulder and grinned at Stephen with half his face. "You again."
"Goals, garages," Stephen said. "I'm branching out."
"You see it, you say it," Alvarez replied. He tipped his helmet at Debbie. "Fast call. Saved time we didn't have."
Mrs. Diaz swept her kids into a layered hug that made a sound Stephen felt in his own throat. "Gracias, gracias—"
"All you," Debbie said, squeezing her hand. "You moved. That's the hard part."
Stephen slipped the pink blanket back around the toddler like a cape and made it a game. "Super princesa," he told her, very solemn. She beamed, tragedy forgotten.
They stayed until things were loud for the right reasons again. Debbie gave their number. The casserole turned into a gift for later. Stephen watched firefighters coil hoses like tired snakes and learned five more kinds of competence just from looking.
His phone buzzed.
[Mark]: 4x400 tryouts killed me but not literally. Splits: 61 / 60 / 62 / vomit.
[Stephen]: Numbers impressive. Last split scientifically valid.
[Mark]: Did you see the maple thing on Neighborly? you ok?
[Stephen]: We called it in. Mr. Alvarez saved the day. I helped a toddler breathe.
[Mark]: Bro I cannot compete with that. Also proud of you.
Stephen smiled into his shoulder and pretended his eyes weren't hot.
_ _ ♛ _ _
At home, the house clicked back to itself—air conditioning hum, Mark's shower singing, Nolan's footsteps pausing, that consistent pause outside Stephen's door that meant I'm here and I'm leaving at the same time.
"Gas leak?" Nolan asked over dinner like asking about weather. He had a talent for putting a whole paragraph into one line.
"Mrs. Diaz's garage," Debbie said. "We called. It was handled."
Nolan's gaze skimmed Stephen like a check-up you didn't know you were having. "Good head."
"Good ears," Stephen said, Rule Twenty-Three wearing its best shirt.
"Those too," Nolan said, and something moved in his face like approval put on a coat.
Mark told the story of his try-outs like it was already a myth. He made his own jokes and they were kinder than usual. "Coach said my form is 'earnest.' That feels like a hate crime."
"It's a compliment," Debbie said.
"It's a vibe," Mark said, but he was smiling. "Also: there was a kid who ran 52 like it was nothing. I clapped like a proud mom."
"Being good at being happy for people is a superpower," Stephen said.
"Don't @ me with wisdom," Mark replied, flicking a pea at him and missing by design.
They ate. They laughed. There was no cape in the room and it still felt like the right kind of heroic.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Night in his room was a smaller kind of quiet. Stephen set an egg on his desk because routine was a friend that didn't ask questions. He opened the red notebook and drew the garage—little square, hinge singing wrong, flame like a cartoon tongue behind the vent. He wrote the new rule slow so it would stick.
He added another for the toddler's bubble-breaths because small helps count.
He left a last line blank. Sometimes rules arrived in sleep.
He clicked off the lamp and lay down. The sun had left, but its echo held a seat for him somewhere behind his ribs. He breathed like bubbles. The house breathed back.
He slept.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Rules (so far) — Stephen's Red Notebook
Act normal.
Ask questions like you don't know anything.
Don't try to fly.
No showing off.
If you mess up, stop.
Listen on purpose.
Small helps count.
Be a kid when you can.
Treat everything like it's made of glass.
If startled, freeze—don't grab.
Sun helps. Don't chase it at school.
Smile and shrug.(If people look too long.)
Headphones when the world is too loud.
Eggs = practice.
Don't test things you can't untest.
Journal everything. (Facts > fear.)
Keep the question mark private.
Practice in shade when you can.
Eat when everyone eats.
If panic → sun or water → breathe. (4–4–4)
Never be the only witness to your own miracle.(Call someone. Make noise.)
Share credit. Let adults finish the save.
Use the boring answer first.("Good ears.")
Listen to metal. Bolts, hinges, brackets.
Receive, don't catch.(Let force go through you into ground.)
Track charge by feel. Don't depend on it.
If asked, answer small. Then ask back.(Buys time.)
When someone you love feels heavy, sit with them.(Quiet helps.)
If you smell sweet-wrong (rotten eggs) → back away → call 911.
Yell the right word.("Fire!" gets feet moving.)
Point people, not problems.(Show where to go.)
Make bravery contagious.(Bubble breaths for small kids.)
Watch how pros move. Learn five things.
End of Chapter 16