WHEN THE PHONE rings at 4:59 a.m., Ronin lies in bed, his body stretched across the length of it, white blankets tangled at his feet. His room is dark, the radio turned off at some sleepy moment during the night. He reaches out, his hand fumbling across items until it brushes against and grabs
his telephone.

"Yes?"

"I don't know why I even bother you with this, Ronin." The voice of his boss rings loudly from the phone. Ronin sits up, running his hand through his hair as he tries to wake up. "You got one for Princess Parasoul?"

The general sighed as he stirred a mug in the background. "Yes, a small package not even worth mentioning. Today, I'll be assigning Pohle on the job." Adam answered in a hoarse tone.

"No. I've told you before -I'll handle it." Ronin cut the general off for a moment, tapping his finger at the bottom of the telephone.
Kapowski's voice lowers.
"You know how much trouble I could all get in if Parasoul knew if I keep you in this job. Last night, I had to write you up."
Ronin rubbed his eyes, "I know, I know. I owe you." He reassured.

"You've told me that two hours ago. Now, please. Enjoy your day off or would you like to be put to work down with the National Guards?" Adam's sentences trailed off into a cough. It sounds raspy and bloody. However, the general comes back, "What's your choice?"

Ronin shudders, fighting the urge to say something against the general. "Wherever, sir. I'll see you then."
And the men drop the line.

High Tower, 6:28 p.m.
Canopy Kingdom.

I HAVE EXCEPTIONAL hearing in my left ear and enjoy sitting against my top-floor apartment door, listening to the activities going on in the hall. It's amazing how much people give away on their way from the elevator to wherever they're doing. Sometimes egrets step out of the elevator
for privacy, unaware this is my floor.
a fact I find hilarious. From my doorside seat,
I hear the fights, the secret conversations, and the everyday normalcy that gives away so much about a person.
Simon was, for a long time,
"the Brown-Haired Smoker." These past two weeks, I keep a notebook next to the door, in the cardboard box. In it, I have a page dedicated to every egret who passes my floor, including me. There are fifteen
"Sixers," as I like to refer to
us, and when Simon moved in, "the Brown-Haired Smoker" is what I wrote on the top of the page.
He comes here time and again, as best I could tell from my peephole, was one step above trailer trash Travis. They were arguing, carrying black trash bags full of crap, and Travis' voice interrupted Simon twice between the elevator and the door.
I started a page for him and titled it "Trailer Trash Travis."

I later found out Travis' name was Thomas, pronounced the French way, "Thoma," and he worked around the artillery. Two weeks after delivering together, they got in a fight,
Thomas resigned back to artillery, and I threw away his page. From the word, of their parting, he would not be coming back.

.
.
.

UMBRELLA SITS ON one of the high stools in her head kitchen, kicking the baseboard of the bar top, which causes her stool to slowly spin, right and then left. Her book bag, the edges frayed from three years of use, slumps against the bar, exhausted from a day of reading, writing, and riding the bus.

"Stop that'
her maid says- not turning - the sound
from Umbrella's kicks grating on her nerves. The woman lays out two pieces of bread, then spreads peanut butter onto one side. Letting out a deep breath, she screws on the lid, then opens
the jelly jar and glances at Annie with a warning look.
Umbrella stops, using her hands instead to spin her stool, and looks at the hand clock above
the stove: 6:30 p.m. Only two more days till her party. She pushes off the stool, and the worn soles of her shoes smack against the kitchen's clean linoleum floor as she heads to the round table pushed into one corner of the kitchen.

Rounding the table slowly, she runs her hands over the tops of the bright and sparkly packaged plastic bags, stuffed with candy, markers, and packets of stickers. Ten favors in all, for her ten school friends.

Hearing Adam's call, she turns from
the table and runs, following the sound of his voice until she reaches the hallway, set up in the living room. Adam wants company, so Umbrella sits in the living room with him, her legs criss-crossed, hopping onto the sofa ledge in the window. The Renoir dog, a German Shepherd that had scratched at run loose from the Black Egret dog compound, had been running around the Renoir domain for two weeks before her sister, Parasoul finally relented and
welcomed him in, jumps up beside her, circling twice before settling in, snug against her body.

His soft black-and-
brown hair brushes her bare leg, and she reaches out and pats his head. His tail thumps, slow and steady, and he opens one eye to look at her contentedly. He is a good dog, but what she really wants is a kitten- one with soft fur and big eyes, who will curl up in bed with her at night.

"How was school?" Adam's voice creaks, roughened
by too many years of yelling commands and coughing. He reaches for his tea, and drops of condensation drip down the side, landing with a soft splat on the worn surface of the table.
"It was good, Bucko."

"You like third grade?"

A Black Egret infographic brochure lays on the end table, and Umbrella picks it up, with an Egret soldier standing tall with rifle in arm. Men of Canopy, Enlist Today! was titled above, and Umbrella tossed it.

"I guess."

"How's your teacher? Mrs. Jeanne, is that her name?" The man asked, glancing out the window with her.

Umbrella dissolves into giggles and reaches out and pinches his arm. "It's Miss Sparrow, dingus. I've told you that, like eight times!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I get confused." He tousles the top of her pink head playfully. "Excited about your party?"
She nods enthusiastically.
"Super excited, Mr. Adam"

There are three presents wrapped on the table.
Umbrella already knows what two of them are. Last Sunday, after lunch, she snuck into Adam's office, pulled back his winter and uniform coats, and looked for presents. Adam always hid her presents there. Behind the big, Auffy black coat with the hole in the bottom hem was a plastic bag.

She reached in the bag as quietly as possible and
pulled out the two items inside. One was a dark blue
My Little Pony horse, the plastic package slightly dented, the cardboard colours faded. The other was a zippered pouch with sixty-four
colored pencils. She squealed
excitedly--before remembering where she was- quickly stuffed the items back inside the bag, and left the room.

before she was caught and punished.
She now examines the third brightly wrapped package with interest: poking, lifting, and shaking it to try to figure out what is inside. It is a box, large and square, about the size of a basketball. It feels heavier than a basketball. Her mind
burns through the possibilities, the thought of waiting an entire day to open it torturous.
Umbrella hears Adam call out, and
turns, quickly setting down the wrapped gift and sprinting through the corridor, her Mary Jane shoes making squeaking sounds on the tile foor.

(Yes, that's an actual shoe name)

.
.
.

ADAM WATCHES the girl play with the dog. The happy smiles, the youthful innocence. He moves from his place at the window, walking to a nearby telephone, pulling out his wallet, and urges to glance backward, in case Umbrella knocks something. This is a small place, even though it's the Renoir family's home, it's simple and not too fancy, a home where people notice things and odd behaviour stands out. A place where everyone knows and has known
everyone else. Despite their royal status, they never had much but heirlooms passed down.

A shriek of pleasure hits his ears and he focuses on the familiar voice speaks before him, on her lips, which are forming words he should respond to.

"How is she?"

He swallows. "She's the usual, happy-go-lucky, ma'am.."

"Very well. Tomorrow is will indicate that my quarantine is over." The female voice rings at him, sending chills down him, and they bid goodbye then hang up. Adam breathes hard, walking past the girl, his eyes locked forward on the handle of the door. One step before another, three steps away, now two, now one.  Don't look over, don't make eye contact with the dog.

Then he is outside the living room, the radio muffled in the background, but he tells Umbrella to come along, but the dog squeezes through, accompanying Umbrella at her side.

He needs to get back. To get in front of the telephone
and talk to Ronin. Just for a quick moment. Without a proper confrontation, his thoughts will wander, and lately they are wandering to the place they shouldn't go. To the one Egret recruit that he should stay away from more than any of the rest, the one who is
too close to home, the connection too strong - the chance of danger too great. He shakes his head, focusing on the child, focusing on step one.
Step 1: Get back to work.
Step 2: Deal with a certain Egret, otherwise he will, forcefully, be resigned.

——-

Completely random, but have a image.