Yield by Bryan K. Johnson

”
    “ Good, ” she answers. “ There ’ ll be fewer jokes. ” Her own blond hair sparkles mischievously. The morning sunlight filters through the kitchen window, brilliantly illuminating the curving perfection of her face.
    The fireman bites one of his knuckles, tracing the shadows caught strategically along his wife ’ s shirt. He sighs, wishing yet again he had more time to attend to his marital duties.
    Responsibility overcoming temptation, Devin turns back to his son. The fireman ’ s shoulders are slumped like a broken animal. “ Time to check your numbers, Ty. ”
    Tyler sits on a stool beside his sister at the kitchen island. His dull eyes are lost in the flashing imagery of the television set. The boy ’ s left hand is up protectively to shield his eyes from the obnoxious innuendos of his parents.
    “ Dad, ” Tyler pleads. Reluctantly, he puts his bagel down on the paper towel, wishing he could break the chains for just one day.
    “ Let me see, ” Devin orders. He holds his hand out expectantly.
    “ Fine, ” Tyler snaps, taking the blood-glucose tester from his dad. “ I ’ ll do it. ” The eight-year-old winces as the needle pops into his small index finger. A droplet of life instantly pulses from his skin. The LCD counts down slowly from five. Black dot matrix bubbles stop and blink at 75. “ See? It ’ s fine, ” he shows. The boy tosses the testing unit onto the counter, as if even holding it would show his weakness to the world.
    Devin glances at it quickly before eying the clock beside Tyler. “ Damn, is it past seven already? ” He turns to Katherine. “ I gotta get in the shower, love. Can we be ready to leave in twenty minutes? ”
    “ Why not? ” she smiles, wanting to say it normally takes at least twice that.
    Devin walks briskly back toward the bedroom. “ Your blood sugar ’ s a little low, bud, ” he shouts. “ Make sure to have the nurse check it again at school before lunch. And eat your bagel! ” The fireman turns and starts running full throttle up the stairs again.
    “ I ’ m not hungry, ” Tyler grumbles. The boy tears off small pieces of the specially-sweetened wheat bagel and scatters the dissected crumbs all across the paper towel. Fragments of the bread just small enough to appease a glancing parent soon cover it.
    Haley shakes her head, looking condescendingly down at the mess in front of her younger brother. “ And they think I ’ m difficult. ”
     
     
     

Chapter 4
     
     
    7:40 A.M.
    The Bane family crams into their cluttered silver minivan, tossing bags and attitudes at one another. Katherine begins down their driveway even before the reassuring clicks of seatbelts are heard. Older brick houses and lush lawns pass as they make their way through the picket-fenced neighborhood. The van ’ s stainless steel Christian fish symbol sparkles from the back lift gate, just to the right of its white and evergreen Oregon plate. Even in the rain, the crisp, metallic-flecked vehicle sparkles. Washed methodically by Devin during one of his weekly maintenance rituals, he finds the scrubbing a welcome distraction to the hectic normality of life.
    Katherine cranks the wheel hard to the left. She heads down another indistinguishable street within the suburban jungle 10 miles south of Portland, zooming by cookie-cutter houses and well-groomed landscapes.
    Traffic is light, except around the dozens of crosswalks and intersections they pass. Webs of bus stops interconnect the streets. Young kids walk under bleak Northwest skies, perfectly content as they cling to hands or skip with friends through the irresistible splash of mud puddles. The rain has let up slightly, but brilliant umbrellas and colorful hoods still dot the darkened sidewalks.
    Devin looks nostalgically out the passenger window at all the well-mannered children moving by, wondering whatever happened to the innocence in his own. “ I don ’ t care if it ’ s just a movie, ” Devin says. He watches