Jane arrived at the men's apartment promptly at seven. Val and Prett were eating breakfast, and she joined them. Danny strolled in, his eyes bright and merry, evidence his hangover had dissipated. Jane melted at his blazing smile, flushing with appreciation at his just-showered appearance. He wore a gray t-shirt underneath a red plaid flannel shirt; the former tucked into beat-up jeans. But when he grabbed the jug of orange juice and took a swig, her admiration evaporated. "Ugh." He raised his eyebrows as he pointed to her and then the almost empty jug. "Not anymore," she said. He signed a reply. She looked to Prett.

"He says it's fine; it didn't backwash."

Danny swatted the back of Prett's head before offering the juice to Jane again. "No thank you. I'll just have water now."

"Good choice," Prett said. "Who'd want something his lips have touched? Gross." Danny shook his head, drained the jug and tossed it into the trash. "You'll have to forgive his piggishness. We've all learned to make allowances for him, poor boy." Danny slapped the back of Prett's head again. The latter almost spit out his coffee. "Heh! You know it takes a harder hit than that to shut a person up, Vel." Danny ignored him, striding to the fridge.

"Did Danny get hit on the head or something? I keep hearing references to it."

"Yeah. But he refuses to speak about it." Val snorted with laughter over his plate of scrambled eggs, and even Danny was grinning when he returned with an unopened jug of orange juice.

"Oh," Jane said. Some kind of inside joke. Danny opened the juice and with a flourish poured some into the glass in front of her. "Oh," Jane said again. "Thanks." Danny replaced the cap and set the jug on the counter with a thump, pointed to it, himself, and signed, shooting an arched look towards Prett. His meaning was clear: Prett's off-the-wall interpretations were suspect. "What does that mean?" she asked Prett.

"He says his lips haven't touched this one." He lifted his coffee cup. "Yet." Danny shook his head with a grin.

"I don't mean the orange juice. I mean about him not talking about getting hit in the head. I don't get the joke."

"Well, obviously he doesn't speak. About getting hit in the head. Or anything else. That's the joke." Danny smacked Prett again. "Do that again Vel, and I'll pound you!" Danny laughed, signing a reply. Prett shook his head in response. But Danny insisted, and the two had a conversation with only facial expressions until Prett relented. "Fine. Danny's hit to the head was a TBI. Traumatic brain injury."

Oh.

Prett stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth, his eyes showing sadness before returning to his usual bland expression.

He called him Danny. He hasn't done that before. Since Prett wasn't offering more information, Jane asked Danny, "What happened? Car accident?" Danny shook his head and signed three letters, trying to get Prett's attention. "Wait--Val was teaching me letters last night. That was an 'I.' " Danny grinned and repeated his fingerspelling. "I...O...What? Oh, not 'O'. 'E!' I...e...d. Ied? Oh! I.E.D. You were in the military?" Danny nodded. "Iraq?" He nodded again. "When did it happen?" He held up nine fingers. "Nine months ago?" He shook his head. "Nine years ago?" He nodded, and Jane added with new understanding, "That's why you limp."

Danny tapped Prett on the shoulder and signed. "Shredded legs," Prett said in a tone that indicated he was interpreting word for word. "Exchanged shrapnel for metal pins. Had to learn to walk again." Danny apparently said something about Prett, who responded, "That's not important." Danny rolled his eyes, but continued signing. "Third and fourth degree burns." Danny took off his flannel shirt, exposing the discolored, tightened sections of skin on his toned arms. He turned sideways to pull up his t-shirt, but Prett held out his hand. "She doesn't need to see all your scars, Vel."

"I don't mind." Did I just say that?!

"Don't encourage him, Miss Jane, or he'll strip down to his skivvies. None of us want to see that. Least of all me. I just ate a full breakfast." Danny grinned, re-tucked his t-shirt, and stuffed his arms back into his flannel.

Danny in his skivvies. I doubt it'd make me lose my breakfast. Jane flushed. Interesting Prett is more uncomfortable revealing Danny's scars than Holly's bruises.

Danny pulled up the barstool and signed to Prett again. The latter contemplated his request before speaking. "The head trauma was the worst part. There are lasting effects. Changed his personality. Or, rather, magnified it." Prett placed his hand on the back of Danny's head and ran it down the length of his still-damp hair. "For instance, he was always vainglorious, but now he can't walk past a mirror without primping." Danny swiped Prett's hand away. "I hoped the blast had knocked some sense into him, but as you can tell, it didn't." Prett put his rejected arm on the counter. "However, he now understands advanced calculus, so there's that." His brothers chuckled.

Prett took a sip of coffee as though finished, but Danny insisted on one more thing. "Oh, yeah, it also caused dysarthria. The part of the brain controlling his speech muscles was permanently damaged. He can't speak well anymore, so he doesn't." Danny upturned his hands towards Prett with gratification his brother had gotten around to the point.

"Is that when you learned sign language?"

Danny shook his head. "His mama was deaf," Prett said. "He learned to sign before he could talk. Spent most of his childhood signing and speaking every word simultaneously." He glanced at Danny. "Real annoying; him saying everything twice. Finally settled on only speaking. Till the blast to the head, when he switched."

"So is that when you learned sign language, too?" she asked Prett and Val. They nodded. "From Danny's mom?" Prett gave a short nod and looked down at his plate. He lined up his knife and fork and adjusted his coffee mug. Val watched his brother rearrange his silverware while Danny stared at the countertop.

"What?" Jane asked.

Prett glanced at his brothers before looking at her. "What, what?"

"Something happened here." Jane twirled her finger at the three men.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. You all went quiet."

"I was done talking. And they're always quiet."

With a small smile, Val typed a message into his phone and handed it to her.

We miss Danny's mama.

"Oh," Jane said. "She passed away?" Val nodded. "I'm sorry." Prett held out his hand in a request to see the phone. He read the message before passing it to Danny, who smiled and typed a reply. "How long ago?" Jane asked.

"Twenty-five years now," Prett said softly.

"Oh." The realization brought tears to Jane's eyes. She looked at Danny and imagined him as a young boy, losing his mother. I know how that feels. Danny sent the phone zipping across the counter to Val, who read the new message. Smiling shyly, he put the phone in his shirt pocket. "So why don't you speak?" Jane asked. "Were you hit in the head, too?" The question took Val by surprise before he smiled and shook his head. He typed another message.

I stutter.

"Well, lots of people stutter. How bad can it be?"

Val turned a little red.

Prett snorted. "Vanity. The pair of them. They could speak, instead of making me do it all for them." Danny touched his open hand to his chin and extended it towards Prett. "Is that it? One little 'thank you' for years of interpreting your endless rambles and nonsensical diatribes?" Danny grinned, thanked him again, then crooked his arm around Prett's neck, pulling him close to kiss him on the cheek. "Oh, stop it." Prett shoved him away. "Slobbering on me won't cut it either, little brother. You're pretty, but not that pretty. Try monetary compensation next time." He slid off the stool.

Jane didn't need Prett to interpret Danny's flippant reply. You love me and you know it.

"The problem is," Prett shot back, "you know it." He carried his dishes to the kitchen sink. "Now stop lollygagging. We've got work to do." The two went to the front door, but Danny grabbed Prett's coat, held it behind him and tapped his cheek. "So help me, Vel, if you don't give me that–" Prett tried to snatch the coat. "You are such a pain in the ass. This is why I'd pull the plug every time." Danny laughed, giving his cheek another tap. "You are so twelve years old." Prett waved his hand towards the kitchen. "Way to impress Miss Jane. This is how rumors about us get spread, you know." Prett yanked the front door open and left. Danny threw up his hand in exasperation. He whistled. Getting no response, he sighed with dejection and followed Prett out.

After Jane and Val finished breakfast, they found the brothers spreading plastic sheets on the hotel's kitchen floor. Val carried in a stepladder and an aluminum bench while Prett pointed out the paint supplies. "You want me to help you get started?" he asked.

Jane pulled out a package of paint tray liners and ripped the plastic off. "Nope. I've done this before."

"We'll be in the bathroom if you need us, then," he said, jerking his head towards the lone bedroom on the main floor. "Finishing up the tile work."

The men left, and Jane hugged the paint tray to her chest as she surveyed the room. The kitchen was long and narrow, with two windows along the length of the outside wall, and a double-wide gaping doorway opposite them which opened into what would be the dining room. Jane had already peeked at the mahogany swinging doors and cabinetry awaiting installation.

No woodwork remained in the kitchen, and the polished wood floor was now well covered, so she needn't concern herself with splattering. I'll start at the far end and paint across the ceiling. Then the walls. One coat of primer and one coat of paint. Simple enough. But first, some natural light. Those pink panels have to go.

She tugged on the insulation board in the nearest window. The panel slid out easily. But as she turned it sideways to lean against the wall, she startled. Numerous bugs crawled on the panes. She screeched and jumped back, throwing the foam board. It hit the window, causing several bugs to fall off the glass. She screamed again and ran to the center of the room, jumping onto the workbench, just as Prett and his brothers burst into the room. She pointed to the window. "Roaches! They're everywhere!"

As they looked at the window, their expressions of alarm dissolved. Then Danny doubled over in laughter. Val grinned, while Prett struggled to keep his own expression passive. "It does appear we have an infestation," he intoned.

"An infestation!" Jane stamped her foot in emphasis. Prett strode to the window. When he reached his hand towards the pane, she shrieked. "Don't touch them!" He turned and walked back to her.

"You talkin' 'bout these here roaches?" He held his hand towards her, a bug crawling across his knuckles.

"Yes!" She shrank from him, her fists tucked over her mouth. "Get it away from me!"

He lowered his hand and coaxed the bug from crawling up his sleeve. "Hate to controvert, but this here is what you'd call a boxelder bug. You can tell by the purty orange 'V' on its back." He held it up again, "See?"

"Well, I don't care what it is! Get it away from me!"

"I take it you don't like bugs."

"No!"

"How 'bout spiders?"

"No!"

"Snakes?"

"No!"

"So that ain't what it takes to love you?"

"No!" Wait. What? She took her eyes off the bug. "What did you say?" Prett's expression remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed him. Danny erupted into new peals of laughter. Jane felt her cheeks get hot. She dropped her hands. "Are you making fun of me?"

"I would never."

"I'm just scared of roaches, all right?"

"I hardly noticed."

Jane pressed her lips together.

"You scared of ladybugs, too?" Prett asked.

"That's not a ladybug!"

"No, but these are similar. Annoying, but harmless." Prett held the bug closer to her. "Just think of these as bigger, flatter ladybugs." The bug spread its wings and flew past Jane's head. She shrieked and swatted wildly before clamping her hands on her head. "Oh, and they fly, too," Prett added. Jane cowered a few moments until she was certain the bug had flown away. She took her hands from her hair to see Prett standing in front of her, his now bug-free hand palm up. "Would you like me to help you down now?"

Jane glared at him. A few feet away, Danny rolled on the floor, laughing so hard he struggled to breathe. Val kneeled beside him.

"I'm not helpless!" she snapped.

"Didn't mean to imply you were. You jumped up there by yourself, I wager you can jump down again. I'm just offering you a hand is all."

"You think I'm an idiot. For thinking they were roaches. And for jumping up here."

"Absolutely not." He lowered his hand. "If they were roaches, I'd be the one jumping up and down, screaming hysterically."

"Now you are mocking me."

"Only a little." The corner of his mouth turned up, his warm brown eyes regarding her genially.

I want to smack him! Why? He's kinda cute. Shut up! He isn't.

Prett raised his palm again. "Want me to help you down?"

"No!" She raised her chin and stepped to the far edge of the bench. "Not after you've been touching bugs." She hopped down and swept past him. Marching to the second window, she yanked away the insulation panel, sending dust and bugs flying. She dropped the panel, jumping a little too nervously away from it–and the bugs–than she intended, but pressed on. She half-carried, half-dragged the stepladder to the far corner of the room. She grabbed a paint applicator, ripped the plastic off, and jammed it onto the roller. She then struggled to lift the five-gallon bucket of primer. When that proved too difficult, she worked to pry off the lid.

Prett came over, knelt by the paint bucket and brushed aside Jane's hands. How rude. He pulled off the lid, smiling. At least what constituted smiling for him; his mouth set into a grimace as if trying not to smile. Jane put her hands on her hips and stared down at him. "Is this all funny to you?"

His expression lost its amusement. He stood, saying quietly, "Do you see me laughing?" He suddenly seemed tense. Wary.

Jane dropped her hands to her side. "Well–" She pointed her chin towards his brothers. "They are."

Danny and Val were standing now, the former still chuckling and wiping his eyes. Prett signed to them in a reverse grabbing motion, and Val saluted back. Prett said to Jane, "If you need anything else, call." He walked towards the doorway, adding, "Or scream."

What? Did I offend him somehow?

Danny had the same question. He raised his palms in a shrug, but Prett passed by without comment. Danny repeated the gesture to Val, who shook his head slightly. Danny then shrugged to Jane, flashing his prettiest smile before following Val out.

He still thinks he's charming after laughing at me. Jane scooped primer into the paint tray with a plastic cup. And Prett. I've never met a guy so moody. I can't figure him out at all. As she climbed the ladder, the ceiling and walls stretched out before her. How long will this take me? All the rooms? Probably weeks. Can I stand these guys that long? She brushed paint onto the ceiling's edges. I could quit early. There's nothing stopping me. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed. No, I still need this job. Can't get far on a couple hundred bucks. She resumed painting. But if they keep laughing at me, I'm out of here.

She was repositioning the ladder when Prett returned. "I'm driving Denita to Omaha," he said in a subdued tone. "Her granddaughter died a few minutes ago." He looked towards the doorway. "My brothers are coming with me. So you'll be here by yourself. But no one will bother you. I'll lock the door." He sounded weary. "Don't know what time we'll be home. Late, maybe. Wrap the brushes in plastic bags so they don't dry out, and you can use them again tomorrow." Then he was gone. A moment later his brothers hurried across the adjoining room to catch up to him.

Jane stood in stunned silence, thinking about the conversation at the waitress's dining table about her sick granddaughter. And now the child was dead. Just after Christmas. How awful. How awful for a parent to bury a child. As bad as a young child burying a parent. Like Danny. He would've been about ten when his mom died. Jane recalled the looks on the brothers' faces. Twenty-five years later they still grieve.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Please help me improve my writing by pointing out problems. And if you like what you read, please click the Vote button below. And comment! I love comments! 😊 

Fun Fact: Boxelder bugs. Ugh. So annoying. We get a few in our house, but thankfully we're not infested like some places in town. Whether the Chapman Hotel had them, I don't know. Here it is, circa 1896:

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