a series of sbi oneshots

A voice from the stars

Every night, precisely at six PM, Phil lays out a nutritious meal for four. Children need good, balanced meals, they need schedules to keep them on track. The social workers said so.

Every night, Phil sits alone at a table, a nutritious meal for four slowly going cold. The plates are empty, the chairs are empty. All but one.

Phil is alone.

Phil is so alone.

By seven, Phil has picked at the food and eaten about a portion. The rest he boxes up. Uneaten.

Most of the building is empty, but there is a single mother down the hall from Phil who is always grateful for the food. Her baby cries in the night sometimes, and Clem always apologizes, but Phil tells her he doesn't mind.

He doesn't, really. He understands how it is with babies. Some nights he is comforted by the sound, but most nights the baby's wails rub against a still raw wound.

Its been three years since Phil saw his sons. Wilbur will be eight now. They were going to go to disneyland for his eighth birthday. Tommy--Tommy, Phil's little baby. He's three now. He's learned to walk, he's said his first words. Someone else saw his first steps. Did he call them 'dada'?

Did he have another mother now, too?

Was he happy? Did he get adopted into a good family? Did either of them?

Tommy has the best chance, Phil knows. They always say that babies get adopted quickly. Everyone wants babies. But Wilbur, Phil's loving, intelligent son. Did nobody want him? Did nobody see how good he was?

Was Phil's son in the system somewhere, getting passed from house to house?

Phil draws in a trembling breath. His hands shake on the cheap tupperware. Everything here is cheap.

He used to live in a big house, one that he and Kristin built themselves. For their family. He sold it, he needed the money to keep up his battle.

Phil was a lawyer, but he was criminal prosecution, not family court. He learned all he could, but it did him no good. All the lawyers in the world did him no good.

Not when the deck was stacked against him from the beginning.

There are heavy footsteps outside. The gait stumbling and limping.

His neighbor.

He's the only other person on this floor besides Phil and the young mother. He's an infrequent occupant. He leaves in the middle of the night and is gone for weeks--even months--at a time. Sometimes he returns injured, other times not. He pays his rent in cash, and keeps to himself.

It pings on every instinct Phil has. He wasn't a cop, but he knew criminals.

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Now he is just background radiation in Phil's life. He no longer believes in the delusion of justice.

But his apartment is lonely. The food is put away. Three uneaten portions.

Phil gathers them in his arms and takes a deep breath.

He knocks softly on his neighbor's door and waits. He knows this is probably dumb. If (it isn't much of an if) this guy is in some deep criminal type shit, he won't like Phil paying attention to him.

But Phil is lonely, and it isn't as though he has much to live for these days.

Limping footsteps approach the door. "What," a man's low voice grunts through the wood.

"Uh," Phil says. His voice cracks, he wrinkles his nose at how hoarse it is. He doesn't know when the last time he talked to someone was. He usually just drops off the tupperware at Clem's door. He clears his throat. "Its your neighbor," he says, "I have--I have some extra food. I noticed you just got in, I thought you might like something."