“The mic picks up that screeching drawer.”

“Brent, it’s seven o’clock,” I said.

“I’ve got three hundred live viewers right now,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the frame again.

“Shut off the overhead bulb when you’re done.

The power bill is high enough already.”

“I’m the one who pays the power bill,” I said.

Brent looked at the blue plastic bin, then at my hands resting on its handles.

“Mom said you were acting strange this morning,” he said.