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The late November sun struggles to pierce the heavy, leaden blankets of Oregon cloud cover, casting a muted, silvery light across the rumpled sheets of the master bedroom. It is 11:13 AM on a Sunday, a time usually reserved for the frantic energy of a household in motion, but today, the house on Evergreen Terrace breathes in a slow, rhythmic hush. Next to Homer, Clancy is a mountain of soft, steady respiration.
Two months ago, the docks were a theater of cold steel and the copper tang of blood—the D’Amico family’s parting gift, but here, under the weight of a heavy duvet, the only sound is the radiator’s hiss.
Homer lies awake, tracing the jagged line of the horizon where the ceiling meets the wall. He doesn’t move, terrified of breaking the spell of Clancy’s sleep. He knows the timeline of the house by heart now. On 4th Street, Ralph—eighteen now, with a quiet, observant soul that has finally found a home in the inclusive pews of the Unitarian Universalist church—is likely mid-hymn. Further south, in the lush, rain-drenched outskirts of Eugene, Maggie is with Laura. At eleven, Maggie has traded her pacifier for a precocious, searching intellect, finding a strange, earthy peace at the Aquarian Tabernacle Church. They are gone, safe in their respective sanctuaries, leaving this space for the two men to simply exist in the quiet.
Clancy stirs, a low groan vibrating in his chest. He’s fifty-three, and the five weeks he spent in a coma have left him with a lingering fragility that he hates, though Homer treats it like a sacred trust. When Clancy finally opens his eyes, they are clear, focusing on Homer with a depth of affection that still makes Homer’s heart stutter.
"We missed the early bird special at life today, didn't we?" Clancy’s voice is gravelly, a remnant of the tubes and the silence.
Homer grins, a wide, goofy expression that reaches his eyes. "The birds are overrated, Cee-Cee. Pancakes are better."
By 11:30, they have migrated to the kitchen, a slow-motion procession of flannel robes and mismatched slippers. The air in the kitchen is chilly, smelling of old wood and the impending winter. Homer takes point at the stove, the familiar ritual of the percolator providing a rhythmic soundtrack to their late morning. He reaches for the bag of flour, his movements deliberate, but his gaze keeps drifting. It catches the light every time he turns his hand—a brilliant, defiant spark on his ring finger. It isn’t a diamond; it’s a zircon, selected for its high refractive index and its honest, unpretentious beauty. To Homer, it’s more than a stone. It’s a marker of the twenty days remaining until December 13th.
He stands at the counter, the whisk poised over a bowl of batter, but he’s staring at the way the kitchen’s fluorescent light shatters against the zircon’s facets. He thinks about how close he came to never wearing it. He thinks about the dock, the sirens, and the terrifying, icy weeks of waiting for Clancy to wake up. Clancy leans against the doorframe, watching him. He notices the distraction, the way Homer’s thumb subconsciously brushes the metal band.
Clancy’s mind flits briefly to the irony of Homer’s new social circle. It’s a bitter pill, sometimes, knowing Homer found a seat at Fat Tony’s table while Clancy was fighting for his life against that very world. He thinks of the stories he heard when he woke—Homer, the accidental hero of the outfit, defending Louie in a bar brawl and then fixing the seasoning at Luigi’s with a pocket full of herbs. It’s so quintessentially Homer: a man who can navigate the deadliest egos in Springfield armed only with a sprig of rosemary and a lack of guile.
"You're doing it again," Clancy says softly, moving into the room to close the distance. He places a hand over Homer's on the counter, his palm warm and solid.
"It's just real shiny, man," Homer mumbles, though his voice is thick. "I keep thinking about the date. December thirteenth. It sounds like a lucky number to me."
"Twenty days," Clancy confirms, his voice dropping an octave. He pulls Homer back against his chest, careful of his own lingering aches. "I didn't wake up just to miss the best party of the year. You got the syrup?"
Homer turns in his arms, the zircon catching a stray beam of sun that has finally managed to break through the Oregon mist. "I got the high-fructose stuff, the good kind. And I’ve got the rosemary if the pancakes taste too... legal."
Clancy lets out a short, breathy laugh, the sound a victory in itself. "Leave the herbs in the pantry, Homer. Just give me the pancakes and the guy wearing the ring."
In the quiet kitchen, with the kids miles away in their churches and the shadow of the D’Amico family fading into the damp November fog, Homer flips the first circle of batter. The zircon sparkles with every movement, a bright, hard point of light in a world that had tried so hard to go dark. They have twenty days. For the first time in months, Homer feels like they have all the time in the world.