The Behavioral Anchor

Bruce puts his empty bowl on my foot while I’m trying to mend Rose’s glasses. I look down. He stands with his chin above my knee, an amber square blinking on his collar. “Yes, I see it.” He nudges the bowl farther onto my foot. “Give me a minute.” Rose leans across the table to watch me balance a tiny screw on the end of the driver. Without her glasses, she has to come close enough that her hair brushes my hand. “I can finish that after breakfast.” “I’ve nearly got it.” “You said that ten minutes ago.” “And now I’m even closer.” She rests a hand on my shoulder and stays where she is. Salem watches from the windowsill above the radiator. His green optical apertures narrow as I lower the screw toward the hinge. “Where did he find this again?” “Under the dresser.” “Of course.” “I don’t know how it got that far.” “It’s a tiny screw, Rose. They go wherever they please.” The thread catches. I give the driver a careful turn, then open and close the arm.