The boy has crawled under the bed and is now positioning the tape recorder’s microphone at the right distance. He presses the record button.
– Today on the bus, two cars with the same license plate number drove past in a row. Both had the number part 888. After that, about ten minutes of… you could say random cars followed. The randomness of the cars is defined by the numbers on the license plates. And when the same numbers appear consecutively, it always means something. And if the sum of the digits is ten, it really predicts something. So something is coming. For example, 226 is a number sequence that adds up to ten. Chance determines fate all the time… so of course the randomly passing cars mean something. On the day we had the times tables test, I saw several cars with identical numbers. I already sensed a surprise coming, but I didn’t know what to prepare for, and that’s why I didn’t pass it.
The boy’s hand accidentally bumps the recorder, and he checks three times to make sure it’s still recording. Between the checks, he has to close his eyes for a moment, just to be sure they’re not tricking him.
– Other numbers matter too. I always sit in a certain seat on the bus… um… because I want to use the middle door. From that seat… it’s seven steps to the middle door. The eighth step has to land on the street. That’s why I don’t like it when Jani rides the bus with me, even though we often take the same bus. But he always messes up my steps. I feel like getting really mad at him. I want to report these numbers and record them here on the tape because I want to find more consistency in randomness. Surprises make me nervous somehow… well, a lot. Chance and our… the events of our will create everything that happens in life. So if I haven’t done something… then chance is the one to blame. That’s why I report.
The boy clicks off the recording. The door bangs downstairs just as he crawls out from under the bed. Fast steps can be heard rushing up the stairs. His little sister appears at the door.
– Why were you under my bed? Are you stupid? the little sister asks emphatically.
– Don’t try to talk to me like you’re some kind of grown-up. You don’t get that when you’re recording something, it has to be quiet. Jesus Christ, seriously.
The boy squints as he speaks and shakes his head mockingly.
– Do you even know when Dad’s coming home? the boy asks.
– Dad already came. He’s been in the garage for like an hour, the little sister replies, looking down at the floor. She walks over to her desk and sits down to continue her unfinished drawing. The boy climbs into the top bunk and hides the recorder between the pillow and the mattress. He presses his head against the pillow and falls asleep.
Suddenly, the garage door slams shut, and the boy wakes to the sound. Through the window, he sees his father running into the field with a shotgun.
– Fuck, I’m gonna shoot him now! I have to hold someone goddamn responsible for all this! the father shouts in a rage.
– What? Who? the little sister’s cautious voice calls out from the porch.
– Fucking God, that’s who! So much good promised to everyone, but not once has it fucking… And it never ever comes. Not for me, goddammit, never for me, the father’s shouting fades into a mutter as he loads the shotgun. Three gunshots echo across the field.
Police car lights flash in the yard. The boy is still in bed. His stomach growls, and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. The biggest part has gone down, but the rest feels like it’s stuck. The little sister climbs the ladder to the top bunk, her face covered in snot and tears.
– Can I stay with you for a bit?
The lump in the boy’s throat suddenly swells to a massive size again.
– No. Seriously, fuck off!
The boy kicks his little sister in the stomach. She cries out in pain and jumps down from the ladder to the floor. Her crying turns loud and hysterical.
– You’ve become just like Dad.
The little sister curls up on the lower bunk, clutching a pillow between her arms. The lump in the boy’s throat seems to spread all the way to his heart. He thinks he’s going to die from the pain, but he doesn’t.
The next morning, the boy is on the bus, leaning against the window, watching the license plates of the passing cars as he heads to school.
