Before the Morning [BEING EDITED]

01 | Cold Pizza

"Nolan, let's go!"

Nolan grumbled out a sigh and yanked on what were undoubtedly a pair of dirty jeans. Whatever.

He stepped over piles of discarded clothes, picking up the first shirt he spotted and tossing it on. He needed to clean his room. The clothes, the dishes, the video games, the clutter had long been picking at him. But did he care enough to do anything about it? Not particularly.

"Nolan!"

"I'm coming!" he hollered.

His backpack. He needed his backpack.

He found it half under his bed. Empty. Great. Just what he needed.

Most of his school stuff he discovered under his bed—folders, notebooks, stray papers. He stuffed them all into his backpack, pausing just long enough to check that he had his homework before zipping it shut. Everything was there, but...

Where was Hamlet?

"Come on, come on," he muttered. The small paperback that had been nothing but a nuisance for the past two weeks wasn't under any of his clothes. Wasn't on top of his bureau. He threw open his closet door. Nope. Not there either.

He looked up at the cramped closet's single shelf. At their house in Ann Arbor, his closet hadn't been a walk-in, but it had had enough room to comfortably hold all of his filming equipment (which, until his dad had been laid off, had been growing steadily in number) and store other things, like his video game collection and other electronics. But this closet? The shelf could fit his camera bag and a few game cases. That was it. And the rest of his equipment threatened to burst out the door every time he opened it.

It was whatever. He didn't open it often, anyway. His equipment just sat there, collecting dust, because Greg wouldn't let him sell any of it.

"Nolan!"

He closed the closet door and rushed out of his room, into the hall. He needed Hamlet for class today—they were doing an in-class group assignment, which, to his chagrin, would require participation—and he didn't want to have to ask someone to borrow their copy. But if Greg screamed his name one more time...

"Finally," Greg snapped as Nolan dashed into the small kitchen.

"Have you seen my copy of Hamlet?" Nolan asked.

"Are you serious?"

"Living room," Caleb said. He stood by the door, his Spiderman backpack over his shoulders.

"Thanks."

Nolan snatched Hamlet from the coffee table—one of the relics from the old house—and started down the hall. He made a quick stop to the bathroom—just long enough to rake his hand through his tousled brown hair—and returned to the kitchen. No time to brush his teeth. He could chew a piece of gum.

"I'll be lucky if I'm not late for work," Greg said, folding his arms over his chest as Nolan crossed the room.

"Sorry," Nolan muttered. His stomach tightened—with apology, definitely, but also with a spark of irritation. Late for work. Yeah, late for a job he hated, which he wouldn't even need to have if he just let Nolan get a freaking job. For months he'd been asking, and each time Greg refused. Even as the late notices began piling up.

He reached the door and shoved on his Converse. He was about to rush out the door, but a breakfast bar blocked his field of vision before he could reach for the door handle.

His lips pricked into a small smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Caleb said.

He tore the wrapper, took a bite, and dashed out the door.