The living room table was a mess of graph paper and dice.
Deshaun sat cross-legged on the carpet, a chewed pencil balanced between his teeth as he drew another crooked line on the dungeon map.
This was a thing that made sense. You start with pencil, overlay in pen and the picture gradually comes together. The room was quiet except for the scratch of the point against graph paper and the hum of the box fan in the window, pushing the warm June air around like it was doing anyone a favor.
"Man, you really doing this?" Eli's voice came from the couch, leaning forward with the tight straps of his tank top straining against his round, muscular shoulders
Deshaun didn't look up.
"What?"
"You know what." Eli swung his legs over the side and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "The army thing. Basic training. All that. You're actually signing up to let people yell at you for money?"
"It's more than that," Deshaun mumbled, flipping through a battered rulebook. The pages smelled faintly of old paper and coffee. "And it's not like I'm going tomorrow. I've got time."
"Time to change your damn mind," Eli shot back. "Seriously, D, they're out there shooting people in the street. You think they're gonna care if you can recite field regs or shine your boots?"
Deshaun set down his pencil, finally meeting Eli's eyes. "Rules keep people alive."
"Rules keep them in control." Eli's voice had that sharp edge it got when he was trying to sound casual but failing. "Look, you got your grandma's house, you got your little… elf-game thing-"
"I like my little elf game thing," Deshaun said automatically.
"Yeah, whatever. Point is, you don't need to go get yourself turned into" Eli stopped, glancing toward the curtained window. Outside, a siren wailed past, thin and distant.
Deshaun picked his pencil back up. "We're not talking about this right now."
He went back to shading in the walls of the dungeon, letting the sound of the siren fade. On his map, the corridors bent and narrowed, all according to the rules in his head. Places where everything made sense.
Grandma's humming stopped. The knock came again from the front door. Firm, but not hurried.
"That'll be Mrs. Alvarez," she called from the kitchen. "Probably wants me to sign her petition again."
Eli smirked. "Petition to keep squirrels outta the bird feeders?"
"Petition to keep the new patrol route off this street," Grandma corrected.
Deshaun set his pencil down and leaned back on his hands as Grandma shuffled to the door. Through the gauzy curtains, he caught the bright flash of a floral sunhat.
Sure enough, Mrs. Alvarez stood on the porch, tote bag over one arm and a clipboard in hand held in place by her perfectly manicured nails. Her smile was wide but a little too quick, like she had ten more houses to hit before supper.
"Just letting folks know," she said, her voice carrying through the screen door, "they're talking about posting two uniforms at the gas station by the highway. Nothing official yet, but you know how that goes. Better to speak up before it's decided for us and all."
Grandma nodded politely, signed whatever line was offered, and exchanged a few pleasantries before closing the door.
"She worries too much," she said, sliding the chain back in place.
Eli raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe not enough."
Deshaun had already gone back to his map. "You two are acting like there's a war on."
Eli snorted. "D, there is."
The box fan whined in the window, pushing warm air over the dice scattered on the table. Somewhere down the block, a lawnmower buzzed to life to cut grass which was only ever allowed to grow so high before being thrashed back down again.
Eli leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You hear what she just said? They're talking about posting uniforms at the gas station. That's like… half a minute from here. You think that's normal?"
Deshaun rolled the pencil between his fingers. "It's preventative. Like guardrails. You put them there so nothing bad can happen."
"That's the sales pitch," Eli said. "In reality? That's just more boots and more guns waiting for someone to look at them wrong."
Deshaun gave him a flat look. "You always think the worst."
"Yeah, 'cause I been paying attention." Eli gestured toward the muted TV in the kitchen, where shaky cellphone footage of a cordoned-off street flickered. "You're in here drawing dungeons like you're gonna get XP for ignoring the real world."
Deshaun bristled. "It's called having priorities."
"Priorities?" Eli barked a laugh. "You mean running off to be some cog in the same machine that's got everybody scared to step outside?"
"It's not about them," Deshaun snapped. "It's about learning discipline, doing something bigger than myself. It's structure. It's rules. Things that make sense when the rest of the world" He stopped, jaw tight.
Eli tilted his head. "When the rest of the world what?"
Deshaun shook his head and went back to his map, pressing the pencil harder than before. "Forget it."
Eli sat back, watching him for a long moment. "You keep acting like the rules are gonna save you, D. But rules don't care who they break. they're just there to keep. to keep themselves standing."
The box fan rattled in the window, struggling against the heat. Neither of them spoke for a while, just the scratch of pencil on paper and the faint hum of the lawnmower drifting through the walls.
The pencil tip snapped, a tiny pop against the paper.
Deshaun stared at the broken lead, his hand frozen mid-line. Outside, the mower's drone cut off mid-pass. A second later, a dog barked, sharp, insistent before being shushed.
Eli didn't say anything, just leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes like he was listening for something.
Deshaun sharpened his pencil to a perfect point, then bent over the map again. In the corridors he drew, nothing happened unless he said so.