Parker knows. He doesn't know why he knows, but he knows. He's unusually agitated today, though a large portion of that is because he woke up to his dad pounding at his door to get up. Sleeping through alarms will do that. Sleeping just outside in the backyard for no reason will do that, too, but he'd managed to shimmy along the back like usual.

They've been slammed all day with a soccer team's bus breaking down and the fact that they're the only ones that take their certain amount of insurance. It's only starting to die down and Parker's underneath a car that's been a month long wait, an older car all fixed up for some aficionado in the city over.

It's typical: the moment Parker can breathe and stop being annoyed, Jude has to walk in. Jude doesn't normally make him annoyed, either, but he's quiet. Jude's always quiet. Parker rephrases that in his head--it's the quiet that permeates the area, that leaves Parker with a strangely coppery tang in his mouth and makes the back of his hair stand up. Something's wrong.

And, finally, Parker lets the wrench clatter noisily to the floor.

"What, Jude?"

Even though Jude hasn't said a single word in the past forty minutes.