Son bustles around the house, organizing his work shit. I work quietly at the counter, aware of his manic energy only in my peripheral vision. I sense his approach.

“Mom.”

I look up.

“Yes?”

He holds up a pile of jumbled black wires and plugs.

“Is there somewhere in the house where we store outdated wires and cords?”

“Sure,” I said. I rise from my stool, take the proffered wires and deposit them abruptly into the trash.

He looks at the wires in the trash, then back at me. I hold his gaze.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”