Something wakes me up in the morning.

I don’t think it was a sound. Whatever it is, I’m sitting up in bed listening, looking around. I don’t see anything. My bedroom door is closed. I don’t hear footsteps or feel any, I dunno, vibrations from anybody moving around. Then I see a dark spike of possibility reach up and, now that I’m looking, the light and dark… whatevers are simmering, agitated, dark and light popping like bacon grease will do in a pan.

I realize that I’ve been pushing back this whole time, trying to calm things down, and I’m certain I was doing it in my sleep. Which is probably a good habit to get into, but also worrying. Maybe, if I’m in a particularly deep sleep, I could drop out of this automatic monitoring altogether and wake up with the house on fire or the Swedish Bikini Team having a pillow fight. Maybe I have a bad dream and the house next door’s boiler blows up. Maybe I have a good dream and win a lottery I didn’t even buy a ticket for. Or maybe it works the other way around? A bad dream would make me push harder against it, right? Something good would happen then unless, in my terror, I push too hard and there’s a backlash.

Then I think, maybe the Swedish Bikini Team isn’t a thing anymore?

Maybe I should google that later.

Also, I need to figure out something to call these things. The dark and light swirls, blotches, and blobs that indicate what chance is doing all around me are… indicators? Or should it be Indicators, capitalized? Sounds too cold. Shadows is too negative and neglects the positive. What are they, really? Defining them might help me name them.

So, they’re the way my brain has decided to sense the fluctuations of possibility or entropy around me resulting from my two curses reacting to each other.

Hmm.

You ever notice that language has a way of simplifying itself? Big words get shrunk over time and usage to simpler, smaller words. The most important words in our language are either all short or brand new. It makes sense. Like, if two cavemen meet and they have to communicate, if one guy’s word for ‘rock’ is ‘rock’ and the other guy’s word for it is ‘compressedsedimenthardthingy,’ they’re going to settle for ‘rock.’ Small. Simple. Important. That goes for all the senses. Eyes see, noses smell, tongue tastes, skin touches, ears hear. All of them are either one syllable or two depending on the verb tense.

Balance is technically a sense too, a gift from our inner ear, so that odd-looking thing hanging off the side of our heads is responsible for two senses. The nose helps with taste, right? So, it’s got one and a half? And now my eyes see color and movement and chance.

Huh.

I say all this to conclude that the word I pick, if it’s a long one, I’ll eventually shorten. Or want to. So why not cut out the middleman and aim for something short in the first place? An abbreviation? An acronym? They are Possibilities, Entropic Signals, Chance? P.E.S.Cs? Oo, if I could come up with an ‘I’ they could be Joe Pescis.

PECS?

Nah, people might think I go to the gym.

I should start going to the gym, actually. I don’t see any reason why this chaos wouldn’t apply to my physical health. The rest of my life I’ll have to dedicate myself to reducing risks. I should also baby-proof my house.

How else do we name stuff? A portmanteau? Jam a couple of those words together? Like a motor hotel becomes a motel?

How to jam together entropic amorphous bullshit thingies swimming around in my vision?

Amorphous entropic thingies.

Aethings. I like it.

Okay, so why are the aethings pissed off?

I get up and pull on my boxers. I check the bedroom and then the bathroom. I open the door and check the hallway. The kitchen is clear. So’s the living room. The garage is empty and quiet and cleaner than any garage I’ve ever seen. The laundry room is fine. The guest bathroom is devoid of any hobgoblins. The basement? I don’t hear anything. I listen at the top of the stairs and look for any hint of motion or disturbance in the light, but I don’t go down there. It’s eight-thirty. I tell myself that’s too early in the morning to deal with any basements unless it’s absolutely necessary.

The last time I was in a basement I found a family tied up and gagged.

I call down, “Hello?”

There’s not so much as a rustle in reply. I close the door and resolve to check it later.

I look out the front door. I look out all the windows. Nothing.

I think about it in the shower.

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Something’s got the aethings moving around. There’s an occasional flare of dark or light that I suppress, but other than that the levels are only a little worse than they are at the police station. Low as they are they’re bubbling and popping like they’re percolating. I’ve not seen that before. I doubt it's anything big, but I have no idea what it means and, seeing as I’m the foremost expert on aethings in the world by default, there’s no one more qualified to ask.

I shrug. When I get the chance I’ll ask them anyway. I know that Tyler and Ochoa will be along because Tyler said they would. I figure they’ll call first, being professionals. When they get here, I'll pick their brains. They're smart.

I wrap a towel around me and head off to the kitchen to see what I can find for breakfast.

Yeah, I just ordered my groceries yesterday but sometimes I don’t know what I want to eat until I’m looking at it.

I’m leaning toward having the frozen biscuits and sausage gravy but I’m not convinced. I check the pantry. It’s one of those that just fits beside the fridge. A long, narrow cabinet with shelves that pull out so you can see what you’ve hidden in the back.

That's when I hear the front door open.

It was locked. Somebody’s breaking in!

I close the cabinet and go for a knife from the block by the stove. My towel falls away. The pantry door closed on it. I hesitate.

The door opens and there’s a family of five on the doorstep. Mom gives a little yelp when she sees me and covers her smallest daughter’s eyes. Dad tries to do the same for the other two, but he’s a little off-target with the oldest who’s blushing but staring.

I open the refrigerator and just about climb inside.

The girls do not enjoy having hands over their eyes and mom and dad, now that I’m covered, allow them to look.

“Uh, hi?” I say. “Can I help you?”

Dad just lifts a hand at me. Drops it.

“Yes, hi,” I say. “I’m renting here?”

“We’re renting here,” says mom.

“Ah,” I say. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’ve booked it for the week.”

“Did you book it?” asks mom.

“Um, no, my lawyer did.”

“When?”

“Uh, two days ago, I think?”

“Same time as us,” mom looks thoughtful.

Dad raises his hand again at me. Drops it.

Mom says, “Did they talk to a computer or person?”

“I have no idea.”

“We used the computer.” Mom gasps. “I bet they double-booked us,” she says.

Dad indicates me a third time.

Mom says, “Yes, I know.”

A shadow looms behind the family. They all turn to find Agent Tyler there looking down at them. She looks over at me. I see Ochoa peek around the door frame, her mirrored glasses making her look like some kind of curious bug.

“FBI,” says Agent Tyler, deadpan. “What seems to be the problem?”

Ochoa is grinning and smacking her gum. “Oh, I hope he’s naked in there,” she says. She looks over at the oldest girl. “He’s naked isn’t he?”

The girl nods. She’s still blushing but she’s smiling.

Ochoa says, “I knew it.” She looks over at dad. “You’re gonna wanna wash that fridge.”

It’s like Mrs. Edelman said. A computer error double-booked them and me. They’re here for a wedding and need the place for the rest of the week. The Edelmans are nice about everything. Nobody’s upset. Not even me. Maybe I’m getting used to this kind of thing.

I volunteer to find another place. They’ve got more luggage than I do, although of course technically I don’t have any luggage or boxes, so I’ll have to get some. We agree that my stuff can stay here until I can move it all out and I promise to do that by the end of the day.

This discussion all happens after Tyler ushers everybody outside so I can dress. I half expect Ochoa to protest, but the most she does is flash me a broad smile and waggle her eyebrows.

After, while the Edelmans bring in their things, the agents and I talk in the kitchen.

“What happened?” says Tyler. “Did you get any kind of warning this time?”

“The…. I’m calling them aethings for Amorphous Entropic Thingies,” I say and shrug.

“No, I like it,” says Ochoa. “Cute and mysterious. Reductive maybe. Diminutive, certainly. Shades of the ancient. Aether. Aethelstan.”

“Aethelstan?” I ask.

“Anglo-Saxon king,” she says. “Read a book.”

“I read books!”

“You two quit flirting,” says Tyler.

“We’re not flirting!” I say.

Ochoa smiles and says nothing. Goddammit.

“The aethings woke me up," I tell them. "I thought something was wrong but couldn’t find anything.”

“So you took a shower,” says Ochoa.

“Yeah. Standard morning behavior,” I say. “You know. You’ve got curly hair too. Gotta wash it in the morning it’s asymmetrical bedhead all day.”

“Yep, first thing I do when something’s about to go wrong is get naked,” Ochoa says.

“Good to know!” I say. Man, she irritates me. “Hang around with me and you’ll save a lot in dry cleaning.”

Ochoa snorts.

“Warn me, will ya?” I say. “I want to take pictures.”

Ochoa tilts her head, cocks a hip, and grins. I’m either going to get hit or shot.

“Yeah, you’re not flirting,” says Tyler.

“This is not how I flirt, dammit,” I say. I nod at the tiny FBI agent. “She fucking hates me.”

Tyler face-palms and shakes her head.

Ochoa giggles and steps forward, right into my personal space. I think I’m about to go flying through the air.

She kisses me full on the mouth.

Then, she turns and helps an astounded Mrs. Edelman manage her suitcase down the hall.

Okay, what?

I thought I was channeling Han Solo from that one scene where he thinks Princess Leia hates him, right? Only to find out I’m Luke Skywalker all along?

Yuck. If Ochoa’s my sister I’m outta here.

“She can’t stand the sight of you,” says Tyler. “Yep. Totally. You were saying about the aethings?”

I look up at her. “Can she do that?”

Tyler rolls her eyes. “Lips are standard for most agents, yes.”

“She kissed me.”

“Complete autonomy over our lips is granted when they're issued," she says. "You’ve given her a big ol’ button to push. Red and shiny. It makes funny noises when she pushes it,” says Tyler. She says it slow. Pedantically. I’m testing her patience. “The aethings?”

“Yeah, I think they build up over time,” I say. “They don't just reflect on people and the relative chaos that free will or whatever brings into things. It’s exposure to me over time, I think. Like erosion or something like that. Stress on a bridge over time just from use will bring it down eventually.”

“You’ve been here since, what? Yesterday afternoon?” asks Tyler.

“Yeah,” I say.

"That's pretty fast, Ben. You know, for erosion."

"Yep."

“You’re going to have to keep moving,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“That really sucks. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. For a moment I think the big woman is going to pull me into a hug. I'm surprised to find that I want her to. That I would welcome it.

She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Better check on your finances.”