"To seventy."
"To seventy," I said, and I took my phone out of my back pocket and opened the app right there in front of him, and went into the settings, and changed it, and turned the phone around so he could see. He leaned in and looked at it, actually checked it, the way you'd check that somebody had locked a door, and nodded.
"And the urgent low soon," he said. "Turn that on. It's off on yours."
I turned it on.
"Okay," he said. He put the old phone back down on the counter, against the toaster, and tucked the blue sock around it. He didn't go upstairs. He stood there with his hand still resting on it.
"Kel," I said. "Bed."
He went. On the stairs he stopped, and turned halfway around, and I thought he was going to say something, and then he didn't. He went up. I heard his door shut, and then, after a minute, I heard it open again, an inch, and stay that way.
Juni finished her taco. She washed her hands at the sink and dried them on the dish towel and did a fingerstick at the counter, because she didn't trust the sensor right after a meal, and wrote the number on the little paper log I'd never once asked her to keep and that she'd kept anyway since she was seven. She came over to where I was sitting at the table and stood beside my chair. She didn't touch the box. She looked at it.
"Are you mad at me?" she said.
"No."
"You're kind of mad."
"I'm a lot of things, baby. Mad's not the big one." I pulled her onto my lap, though she was too big for it and her knees stuck out. She smelled like taco seasoning and the green-apple shampoo she'd picked out herself. "Why didn't you tell me you don't wake up? Even if you couldn't tell me the rest. You could have just told me that."