Terribly sorry to keep you waiting. Here's the next part. Don't want to spoil it, now.

Don't you just love stalkers?

They always have your attention. They always want to know you - but they don't really want to know you. They want your deets, your home, every in-the-flesh detail, but they don't look at getting to know you. It's quite creepy, isn't it? Makes you want to bust the cops out on them.

Once I was sure the smoke trail wasn't following me, I walked up to the house and knocked on the door – rap, rap, rap-rap rap – the Anna-Elsa knock, as I often termed it, because I'd borrowed it from Frozen. (This was back when I thought Disney was worthwhile. I don't highly approve of what they're churning out now.)

I had thirty seconds to rehearse the line – I got 'em for you – and I was getting to the excuse for showing up earlier than expected when Mama opened the door.

My mom is the best person you could ask for – which is a comparison worth making. She had love left over for Daniel and Solomon, sure, but when it came to me, she was always worrying about me the most. I half expected her to fuss over my arrival.

She was presently wearing her best blue jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt with the logo MY FAMILY COMES FIRST, MY COFFEE SECOND. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, which my dad thought looked prettier. Her deep brown eyes glanced into mine like she was examining everything I'd done today.

I braced myself for the worst, but she surprised me.

"Amos, would you come in?"

Well, okay. With that, I entered the living room, where my dad was.

Once upon a time, my dad had been a master basketball player. He'd worked his way from high school into college with a sports scholarship, but he kept studying as well. He understood it as well as anybody – a sound body requires a sound mind. He was constantly reminding us (me, Daniel and Solomon) that we needed to work as well as play in order to keep it up. Daniel didn't take the hint, Solomon did, and I understood but was too much of a klutz to be any good at anything. Or so I told myself.

The five-foot-eleven frame and slim build was about the only thing left from Papa's basketball days. He'd grown a slight paunch, and his hair was graying as well. He was presently in a button-down shirt, khakis and oxfords, which led me to believe he'd just gotten back from work at Academy Sports and Outdoors, where he worked in the supply department.

When my dad noticed who'd come in, he stood up straighter. "Amos! You have the groceries?"

"Right up here," I said, and set down the bag. We liked to do pot roast whenever we could on Fridays, because it left enough leftovers for Shabbat.

"Thanks. And could you fetch Daniel? I need him to clean the kitchen counter, and he should have come up minutes ago. And after that, you sweep the living room."

What? The living room wasn't as cluttered as it was when I was younger and reckless, but it still was a pain to clean up, what with the mud Daniel often tracked in from his time spent in the park. And knowing my brother, he'd be playing video games or binging Bob's Burgers in the den. He was also extremely reluctant to do chores. I'd be here a while.

Instead of back talking – partly because I knew Papa didn't appreciate it, partly because, again, I didn't have that sort of time – I responded with, "Okay."

And then went down to face my brother.

It was pretty well-known that Daniel wasn't the son my parents wanted. He practiced daily on his basketball when we were younger but almost didn't seem to care about studying, which annoyed our father to no end. He's also – I'm not going to sugarcoat it – a real slob. You could always tell which side of the room – which he and I shared – was whose by looking at the mess Daniel routinely left on his side. But you'd have to look fast, because it was usually cleaned up by the afternoon by yours truly. (It's really hard to focus when my space is cluttered. Don't ask me why.)

Halfway down the steps, I pinpointed Daniel where I expected him – on the couch with Resident Evil. I'd never played the game – or particularly wished to – but Daniel absolutely enjoyed it. At first my aversion was about what you'd expect – I wasn't exactly old enough to play the games and I'm squeamish about gore and guts – but after I'd been called to keep humanity from going insane, I realized that the apocalypse setting played a little too close to home.

"Daniel!" I called to him.

He ignored me. Of course. The game was probably too interesting for my time.

A few months ago, I would've let that slide. A little inattentiveness wasn't uncommon coming from Daniel, especially where screens were involved. (He did love his screens a little too much.) But I wasn't about to let him just ignore me. I'd been ignored, insulted, underestimated too many times to let my own brother act like I wasn't there.

I sneaked downstairs and headed around to where the console was. I have a quieter walk than the rest of my family, which makes it hard to notice when I walk in. I quickly spotted the plug and unplugged the console, killing the gore fest on the TV.

At least now I had Daniel's attention. He let out a barely whispered "What the –?" and whipped his head around to see me. I guessed he really wasn't supposed to be playing games right now – as in risking-getting-grounded-for-life not supposed to be doing it. (Of course he wasn't. We had chores to do.) Once he'd recovered from his initial shock, his expression turned to a scowl.

"Amos! I had the Tyrants!"

He took more after our father – tall and slim, with a tanned complexion from all his activity outside. He was presently wearing a green Resident Evil t-shirt with green sweatpants and sneakers. (He had a thing for it. The color green, not the RE.) His dark hair was tousled like he hadn't gotten any sleep whatsoever, and he had some stubble along his chin. I bet he hadn't shaved in two days.

I kept my cool. "There are going to be worse tyrants to fight if you don't come up here," I said. "Papa's getting impatient. You've got to clean up the kitchen. He said so."

"What are you, Mama?"

"Everyone's gotta do their part. I'm stuck with the living room, if that makes you feel better."

I could tell it didn't. He just glanced sideways at me.

At this point I couldn't take it much longer. I had a pressing errand, and the longer it took to get Daniel upstairs, the less time I had to get ready. And I needed both lunch and my chore done pronto. Whatever business VLADJI had going on with whatever new avatar, it was pretty clear that it was waiting for no one.

"Daniel Benjamin Darvosky," I snapped at him. "If you don't get up and help, I'll tell Papa you were playing Resident Evil when he called. And about the Porsche incident. And might I say I cannot believe I have to remind my big brother of this?"

That got his attention. The Porsche incident, not the scolding. That particular incident was one I hadn't been psyched about handling – and naturally, one I reminded Daniel of constantly. It was the sort of thing that would definitely get Daniel grounded for life. I normally waited before I deployed that particular blackmail threat, busting out the other tattletale threats (it's a little brother thing). But hey, I had an appointment.

"Straight to the Porsche blackmail." Daniel observed, rising off the couch. About time. "Got a hot date, little bro?"

"Well, I ran into Miriam, and she asked for my presence." Not entirely a lie. I'd indeed run into her, and she had been interested in meeting with me. Besides, the family didn't know how much distance we'd gotten, so it was the perfect cover story. But it would grow stale sooner or later.

Daniel frowned. Then headed up the steps with a quick "Good luck."

"We'll have to see how long I take to get your mud off the living room floor, though," I commented. "Also, I need lunch."

On that note, we headed up to tackle chores and get a bite to eat.

Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to do pre-Shabbat chores anytime, but the weirdness of the past couple of months had put things in perspective. A few minutes of scrubbing, sweeping, and vacuuming the floors; wiping off the counter and tabletop; and straightening the rooms - all in preparation for the day we were off all work - was a whole lot easier than facing down what I regularly went through.

After chores were finished and I had lunch, I grabbed my satchel.

"Where are you going?" Papa asked.

"Miriam wanted to meet up," I said. I glanced at the clock. 2 o'clock. I had an hour. Sounds like a lot of time, but I liked to show up early. It's a thing.

"Odd time to be hanging out with friends. Where did she want to meet?"

"Cold Stone Creamery," I said, picking the first place off my head. I slung my satchel onto my shoulder.

Papa frowned as if considering the odds of me and Miriam heading out to Cold Stone on a friendly outing. (Spoiler alert: Those were slim to none.)

"Well, have fun," he finally said. "And don't forget to come home by sundown."

Sundown. That was always the limit on Fridays. Shabbat doesn't actually start on Saturday morning, but the evening before. I would have to savor my afternoon out, while I had time.

Which I was totally fine with. I just hoped my smoky stalker wouldn't show.

Here's hoping the smoke doesn't show up, my boy, my boy. Stay tuned!