Jamison stepped from the metal teleport disk and into the shaggy carpeted bedroom floor. He made eye contact with Nessa’s projection. He jerked his head toward the bedroom entrance.
“I need a drink,” he said. “Are you coming too? No one can see you.”
Murmurs rose from the kitchen, and Nessa stuck her hand out as a barricade, blocking Jamison from proceeding. They stopped inches short of the living area.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Trevon said over the clinking of porcelain against porcelain. “I’m just worried, is all. The alien talk. Not interacting with kids his age.”
The clinking stopped, but Trevon continued: “Maybe inpatient shouldn’t be the first option. It started on his gotcha day. Could be trauma; you know, from the adoption.”
There was a dainty, breezy sigh that Nessa and Jamison could place with Enya.
“He’s smarter than you realize,” she said. “Have you considered that maybe--just maybe, he knows something you don’t?”
Jamison grimaced.
“This isn’t good,” Nessa uttered.
“Finish the dishwasher,” Trevon ordered. “I’m calling a psychologist. For BOTH of you. I can’t believe you’re siding with him.”
Nessa almost gagged. Her projection rested her hand Jamison’s arm.
There was movement. Trevon brushed past inches from where they stood, and he pulled a living room seat down. He looked at his phone as he found a comfortable position.
“Yes,” Trevon spoke into his phone. “Does Dr. Adams have an opening? Awesome...I’d prefer evening if that’s cool, but I can take off. Friday 3:45? For Enya and Jamison...Sounds awesome. Thanks, man...you too.”
Jamison clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth.
“I’m going to help Mama,” he mouthed inaudibly to Nessa’s projection.
He started ahead, and Nessa yawned, and then followed from a distance.