Brock Balinski hated grading papers. The work was tedious and boring and it often gave him a headache. He clicked his pen in irritation.  

"Stop that," his brother said without looking up from his own workbench.

"Stop what?"

"That."

"What? This?" Brock said, clicking his pen several times for emphasis.

Ian let out a deep, aggravated sigh. "You're the worst. You know that, right?"

Brock smiled. "It's genetic."

"You can't genetically be 'the worst'."

"Why not?"

"Because it's the worst. The worst is just the worst, you can't--no, you know what, nevermind. I'm not letting you do this."

"Do what?"

Ian ignored him and changed the subject. "Did Mom say what time she was coming over?"

"Afternoonish I think," Brock replied.

“Is she bringing Mr. Potato Head?”

“You mean Brian?”

Ian didn’t answer.

Brock sighed. “Look, if she does, can you just pretend you like him for one night? You know what it would mean to her.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Brock returned his attention to the sheet in front of him and snorted.

"Susie Maldon thinks Yellowstone Park is in Africa."

"To be fair, it almost was that one time," Ian replied.

"I don't think that counts."

"Where are you teaching this week, anyways?" Ian asked.

"Hackensack High."

"Right here in Jersey? Nice, we could use the extra gas money this week. It was $2.75 a gallon this morning. Did you know Lotians pay to take crude oil off each others’ hands. We could be making a killing."

"So you keep telling me. You know Henry wouldn't like it, though. It's against that code of his."

"Bah, what's that overgrown hamster going to do?" Ian said, leaning forward to squint at the contraption in his hand.

Brock shrugged. "Throw us in a stasis sphere for a few centuries? Toss us into the Great Nothing? You really want to find out?"

Ian sighed, "I suppose not. Hey, doesn't Vanessa go to Hackensack?""

"Yup."

"You see her yet?"

"Nope."

"Think she'll be okay with you teaching there?"

Brock frowned, "Why wouldn't she be? We get along."

Ian shrugged. "No reason."

Brock rubbed his eyes and tried to return to his work, but when he reached for another sheet, he found Sable, his enormously over fed grey tabby, had taken up residence on the stack.

Brock smiled and scratched her behind the ears.

"All on your own today?" he murmured to her.

No sooner had he said it than a blur of black swooped down from the loft rafters and scrambled on short, fat legs towards Sable.

Feet skittering, she hissed and high-tailed it off the table, scattering Geography quizzes everywhere.  

"Peter!" Brock admonished, trying to collect his work.

Peter, completely unashamed, nuzzled his warm head under Brock's arm.

Peter looked something like a child's drawing of a horse. All fat, round body parts stuck together like someone had glued several hot water balloons together and thrown on a pair of wings as an afterthought.

Brock sighed and gave up on his papers, instead giving Peter's head a gentle squeeze. Peter chirped and started whirring.

Peter was definitely the reason Brock didn't invite people over. Explaining where you got a drälem this side of the universe was a bit tricky.

Sable, perched high on a nearby bookshelf, glared down at both of them. The look she gave Brock was faintly injured.

"Oh you're fine," Brock said to her. "Quit being such a baby."

Whatever response Sable might have given was swallowed by the sudden blaring of an alarm.

Ian and Brock exchanged glances, then Ian sighed, switched off the alarm and carefully placed his current project back on the workable before standing up.

Brock glanced at the sheets strewn over the table and floor. He was supposed to have them in by Monday.  He was supposed to be in on Monday for that matter.

On the other hand, if he didn't go, there might not be a Monday.

Pulling out his phone, he quickly scrolled through his contacts until he found the right one.

>>Sorry, had to run. Feed Peter and Sable for us? Key is where we always leave it. Love you.

Hitting send, he grabbed his jacket and kit, gave Peter another squeeze and headed for the door.

***

Shane leaned over the table to fix his hair in the mirror hanging over the booth.

"Um. Excuse me," a voice said from below him.

The voice came from a solitary man sitting on the bench seat.

"Yeah?" Shane said, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from the mirror. He wasn't sure about the colour. It was a darker blue than he had intended, and he wasn't sure if his old-world Korean father would even notice. If he'd gone that vibrant blue he had first picked out, it would have made a bigger impact. Or pink. Maybe he should have gone pink.

"Can I place my order now?" the man asked.

"Sure," Shane said. "What can I get you?"

"Can I get the--"

He was interrupted by a chime.

"Oh, hang on," Shane said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He swiped open his messages and read the newest one.

>>Carver Park. Bring Lloyd. Mind the gap.

Shane smiled and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

"Sorry," he said to the customer as he pulled his apron over his head and tossed it onto the counter.

Five jobs in three years, but it was worth it every time.

***

Brock squatted by the hole and examined it with great care. Jagged edges, a small amount of sticky film coating one side and a telltale sweet, oily odor. Definitely a Nagra. Probably a blue spotted one. The Green Razorbacks had a slicker excretion and the Red Bellies gave off a distinct almond scent.

Standing up, he wiped the slime onto the thigh of his jeans.

"Spotted Blue," he said.

"Yuck," Vanessa said. "I hate Spotted Blues. I can never get the slime out of my clothes."

"Could always sit this one out," Ian offered.

She made a small noise with her tongue and waved a heavily bangeled arm in dismissal.

"Are you kidding me," she said. "A rift opens up less than two blocks from my school and you want me to sit it out?"

"I," Ian said, pulling out two small cubes from his backpack, "said nothing about about wanting you to sit it out. I only offered it as a suggestion if you'd rather not get your clothes dirty."

Ian bent to fiddle with the cubes, and Vanessa took advantage of his preoccupation to stick her tongue out at his back.

Ian placed one cube on each side of the hole then pushed a button. The portal disappeared, replaced with an ordinary, run-of-the-mill pothole, complete with construction cones and caution tape.

"Hopefully that keeps people from falling in," he said.

"How much time do we have?" Brock asked.

Ian checked another instrument in his hand. "36 hours, give or take a few. If we keep it under 30 we should be good."

"We'll have to move fast then."

"Why is it always a pothole," Shane asked, "couldn't you make it something more interesting just once?"

Ian shrugged, "Like what?"

"I don't know. Like a dead racoon or something."

"What is wrong with you?" Vanessa demanded.

Shane shrugged. "Just trying to spice it up a bit."

"For who?" Ian asked. "The Rift Doctors? I'm pretty sure they don't care."

"Everyone appreciates art," Shane muttered.

"A dead racoon isn't art," Vanessa argued.

"Nevermind, let's just leave it as pothole. It's worked so far." Brock said. "We've got 30 hours to catch and detain. Gear up and get in."

"Whose turn is it to go first?" Shane asked, stepping into his harness and tightening the straps.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"What? Seriously? Again? I swear I went first last time."

"I went first last time," Ian said. "I remember because I slid down eight feet of mountain side before the rope caught. I had rock burn for weeks."

Shane sighed. "Oh, alright. Give me the rope."

He attached the rope to his harness and crouched over the edge of the pothole.

"Gross. It feels humid," he said. "I hate humid. Ah well, here goes."

He grabbed the straps of his backpack and jumped in.

A few seconds later, he called back up, "Yeah. It's a swamp guys. Smells like sewer. Really not awesome."

Lloyd jumped in, followed by Ian, then Vanessa. Brock took one final look at the park to make sure no one was watching, then dropped into the rift.