FIFTH WALL: A Reader's Broken System.

It was early.

Like, sun-still-yawning, birds-aren't-even-annoying-yet kind of early. And how do I know? Because my dad decided to start my day by assaulting my door with his knuckles like it owed him money.

"Tom! Get your ass up! You've got five minutes before I break this door down!"

So yeah. Not exactly a gentle 'rise and shine, champ.' More like 'rise or die, disappointment.'

I flailed out of bed, tripping on a hoodie I may or may not have slept in and stubbed my toe on the corner of my desk chair—the universe's way of punishing me for existing. My entire body felt like it had been glued together with regret and bad sleep. I dragged myself into the bathroom and brushed my teeth like I was in a toothpaste commercial, except way angrier and with more foam. Took a hot shower too, because if I was going to be dragged to my doom, I might as well not smell like sadness and armpit.

Okay, fine. It wasn't five minutes. More like fifteen. But hey, I was downstairs eventually, dressed in my most dad-friendly outfit: jeans that didn't have holes in them, a clean white T-shirt (miracle), and my grey zip-up hoodie that made me feel vaguely like a background character in a coming-of-age Netflix show. You know, the kid who's going through it but still trying.

Mom was already waiting by the dining table like a sweet, exhausted war general. She handed me a box. Just like that. No words, no eye contact. Just box.

I stared at it like it might explode. Then shoved it in my bag because I didn't have the energy to ask questions or say something clever. The inside of my skull still felt like scrambled eggs.

Dad stood at the bottom of the staircase like some judgmental statue in a Western movie. His arms crossed. His face pinched like he'd just swallowed disappointment for breakfast. He glanced at my mom and grunted, real low and gravelly:

"You spoil him too much."

Cool. Casual verbal punch to the gut before 8 a.m. Love that for me.

I didn't even flinch. I just zipped up my bag like it was my emotional armor and adjusted my hoodie like it could hide the obvious fact that I was barely holding it together.

Because here's the truth: I was tired. Not just from waking up early. Not just from the lack of sleep or the chaos tornado that is my life right now. But from the constant buzzing pressure to not screw everything up again. And hearing him say that—again—was like getting a paper cut on a paper cut.

And yeah, maybe Mom did spoil me. But if making sure your son didn't completely collapse counted as spoiling, then slap a crown on her and call her Queen of Trying Her Best.

I didn't say anything. Not yet. My mouth wanted to. But my brain was still catching up. Instead, I shoved my hands in my hoodie pocket and followed them out the door.

Whatever today was supposed to be—library job interview, stable prison sentence, random errand of doom—I'd figure it out.

Probably.

Maybe.

...Hopefully without throwing up.

Mom ran her fingers through my hair like she was trying to tame a wild animal. Which, okay, fair. I might have forgotten to brush it. Again. But in my defense, I was woken up by a one-man apocalypse banging on my door, so personal grooming wasn't exactly top of the list.

She fussed with it like she was fluffing up a bird before a beauty pageant. "There," she said with a smile that made my chest hurt a little. That kind of smile moms give you when they're worried but trying to play it cool, like, "Don't panic, sweetie, but life is on fire."

"Let's go," Dad barked from the hallway like some grumpy military general who'd lost his last ounce of patience in 1998.

Mom rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard it. "Come on, darling, he hasn't even had breakfast." Then she winked at me, the kind of wink that says I got you, and also don't say anything or I will end you.

She kissed my forehead—one of those soft, blink-and-you-miss-it kisses—but I felt it all the way down to my toes. Then she shoved a plate of toast and scrambled eggs into my hands like it was a survival pack and whispered, "Eat fast."

I nodded like a soldier receiving secret orders. Toast: check. Eggs: check. Dignity: somewhere on the floor probably.

Dad didn't say anything. Just gave Mom one of those long, married-people looks. You know the kind. The ones where they talk with their eyebrows and sighs and somehow have a full five-minute conversation with zero words.

Then he turned to me and gave this classic Dad nod™ toward the door. Translation: Move it, boy.

I basically inhaled my food. Like, not proud of how fast I ate, but if speed-eating scrambled eggs was an Olympic sport, I was at least qualifying. I grabbed my bag, shoved the last corner of toast in my mouth like a criminal hiding evidence, and headed for the door.

Just before stepping outside, I glanced back and saw Theresa leaning on the banister, arms crossed, watching me with this weird, unreadable expression. Not smug. Not sad. Just... there. Like she was trying to figure me out but was too tired to care.

She waved.

Crap.

I waved back, all stiff and awkward like someone who forgot how elbows work, then turned around before I could accidentally trip over my own feet and make this even more embarrassing.

Dad was already by the truck—yep, still driving the big, grumbling beast that smelled like coffee, leather, and horse. He didn't yell. Didn't bark. Just... waited.

That might've been worse, honestly.

I jogged over, trying not to spill the guilt I was carrying like a second backpack, and he pulled me close. Like a real, actual dad-hug. Not the angry kind. The quiet kind. The kind that says, "You're still my kid, even if you're a screw-up sometimes."

And I wanted to say something—anything. Like "I'm sorry" or "Thanks" or "Please don't make me muck horse poop for the rest of my life." But my throat just locked up.

So I stood there for a second, arms kind of half-hugging him back, heart pounding like a squirrel in a blender, and let myself breathe.

Just for a moment.

"You behave, you hear me?"

I nodded like one of those bobbleheads you stick on a dashboard. Except I was less cute and more internally spiraling.

"This is your last chance," Dad snapped, pointing a finger like it was a magic wand that could banish me to doom. "If you screw up, I'm sending you to the military. You hear me? Military."

I nodded again. Still bobbling. Still spiraling. I didn't even know what branch he meant. Army? Navy? Jedi Order?

"Get in the car. I gotta get outta here."

Classic Dad. Nothing says "quality parenting" like threats of involuntary enlistment before 9 a.m.

I tightened the straps on my backpack like that was gonna somehow hold my life together, then slid into the passenger seat like I was walking into the courtroom of my own sentencing. The seatbelt clicked. My fate was sealed.

We drove.

The truck made its usual dying-animal noises as it clunked down the road. I swear, every bump we hit added five more stress lines to my already crumbling teenage soul. I didn't say anything. Mostly because I didn't trust my voice not to crack into that embarrassing puberty-squawk mode.

We rolled through the quieter part of the neighborhood first. Yards full of plastic flamingos, grannies with tiny dogs in sweaters, the usual suburban horror show. Then we hit the busy intersection—aka chaos central. Honking. People yelling. A guy dressed as a hotdog advertising some grand opening. He was dancing like his life depended on it. I envied that kind of commitment.

I knew exactly where we were going. My brain had pieced it together like a conspiracy board with red string. But I didn't say a word. Playing dumb felt safer. Like if I didn't ask, maybe it wouldn't be real yet. Maybe I still had five more minutes of pretending my life wasn't going through a total system reboot.

The radio was on—some upbeat pop thing that sounded like a happy robot trying to seduce a toaster. The kind of music that makes you want to rip out your ears and shove them into a sock drawer just for peace.

Dad switched the station without looking. Static fuzzed for a second, then a voice came on.

"—and remember, teens today often struggle with finding closure after emotional setbacks—"

He didn't say anything. But the way his jaw tightened told me he hated the radio host's voice as much as I did. Which, shocker, something we actually agreed on.

I sank lower into the seat, trying to melt into the upholstery like one of those old cartoons where the character just slides into a puddle of regret.

Inside my head? Full circus. Every dumb choice I made replayed like a greatest-hits album titled: "What NOT to Do, Vol. 1."

Skipping class. Check. Smartass remarks. Double check. That one time I tried to impress a girl and nearly set the science lab on fire? Yeah. Big check.

My stomach twisted like it was trying to Houdini out of my body. I reached for the window crank out of habit, then remembered—this was Dad's truck. Of course the crank was broken. Just like everything else in my life right now.

Outside, the buildings got taller, older. The "we're not in the nice part of town anymore" part of the drive. And still, silence. Me. Him. That radio voice yammering about emotional resilience.

Closure? I didn't even know where to start. How do you close a chapter when the book's on fire and you're still holding the match?

So I just sat there. Quiet. Still bobbleheading on the inside. Waiting for whatever came next.

And praying—just a little—that it wouldn't involve boot camp, shaved heads, or getting yelled at by someone named Sergeant Doom.

We rolled off the main road and into one of those side streets that felt like a tight throat—too narrow, too quiet, and just begging for something awkward to happen. I pressed my forehead to the car window, which, for the record, was weirdly cold like it had been refrigerating my anxiety all morning. The glass squeaked against my skin as I stared out at the people speed-walking past like caffeinated penguins in office suits.

Suits. Ugh. I could already feel the polyester itch just thinking about it. Some people dream of that life—briefcase, tie, coffee addiction—but me? I'm a hoodie guy. Maybe a thrifted sweater if I'm feeling fancy. Comfort over capitalism, thanks.

We pulled into the state library parking lot, which looked way more intense than I expected. Like, I thought we'd park in some dusty corner next to a tree and a stray cat. But nope. Concrete, structured, a few serious-looking cars. This was real. Like, "please don't trip on the stairs and die in front of intellectuals" kind of real.

Dad didn't say anything for a sec. Just sat there, engine idling like it was building up dramatic tension. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror—hair still slightly messed up from my mom's halfhearted smoothing attempt, face doing that awkward pale-but-oily thing. Peak performance.

Then, click. The engine died. "Get out," he muttered.

Not "good luck" or "don't embarrass the family name" or "I believe in you, son." Just... "Get out."

So I did. Grabbed my backpack, jumped down from the truck like it might speed off without me (which honestly wouldn't surprise me), and stood awkwardly while Dad locked up and strolled ahead like this wasn't the weirdest thing ever. I caught up, walking beside him like some half-grown sidekick who forgot his script.

We made it to the door, passed a security guy who looked like he ate overdue books for breakfast, and beeped through a scanner thingy. No alarms. Small win.

Inside?

Holy crap.

Okay, full disclosure—I'd never been inside the actual state library before. I always pictured it like some dusty Hogwarts knockoff with squeaky carts and the lingering smell of old people and glue.

But this? This place was... magic.

High ceilings. Books everywhere. Not just lined-up-nicely books, but towering books, secret-shelf books, dusty-legend-looking books. It smelled like pages, ink, and a tiny dash of overachiever stress. And there was this weirdly comforting hum in the air—like a thousand people thinking at once. Or maybe a thousand people trying not to fall asleep while studying.

My sneakers squeaked a little on the polished floor. Embarrassing.

I tried to keep my face neutral, but my neck kept twisting like it had a mind of its own. Every shelf we passed, I wanted to stop and peek. Like, that one had maps. That one had books that looked like they hadn't been touched since the dinosaurs read bedtime stories.

I swallowed hard and glanced at Dad. He didn't seem to notice me geeking out. Or if he did, he didn't say anything. Classic him—drop you into the deep end, then stand back like it builds character or whatever.

But still... as weird and terrifying as this whole thing was, I felt something small spark behind my ribs. Like maybe—maybe—this wasn't a death sentence. Maybe it was the start of something else.

Still terrifying. But maybe also... kind of cool?

Maybe.

We walked in like two awkward cowboys in a tech museum. The place was practically dead, which made sense—it was barely 7:30 a.m., aka the cursed time when only weirdly motivated joggers and coffee-dependent teachers exist. A couple of adults huddled near the front desk, whispering in that overly serious way people whisper when they think they're important.

Dad cleared his throat like he was trying to cough up authority. "Good morning. I'm looking for, uh, Mrs. Margaret Stanford?"

One of the huddle crew barely looked up. "Down the hall. First office on your right."

"Thanks," Dad said, already moving, and for some reason felt the need to grab my hoodie like I was a toddler about to wander into traffic. I didn't say anything—I was too busy mentally preparing for whatever character-building horror this was gonna be.

We reached the door. Classic wooden office door with a frosted glass window. Fancy. He finally let go of my hoodie like he was releasing a wild animal back into the forest.

"Remember what I said," he mumbled. "You must behave."

"Yes, Dad," I muttered, already bracing for the embarrassment levels to spike. "I remember everything." Like I was some kind of trauma sponge. Great.

Before I could mentally rehearse my "please don't say anything cringe" prayer, the door swung open and out came a woman with a smile that was way too cheerful for this ungodly hour.

"Mr. Silas!" she beamed like we were old pals. "And you must be Thomas!"

Cue mental eye-roll.

"Yes, please—come in," she said, already stepping back into her office like this was all going too smoothly. Smiling. Still smiling. I didn't trust it.

Then she turned her beams directly at me like a librarian-shaped lighthouse. "Can I call you Tom or Tommy?"

And that was when my soul tried to leap out of my body.

"No, please," I said, trying to keep my face from crumbling into pure judgment. "Thomas is fine." I shot a side-eye at my dad like, See? I'm behaving. I'm also dying inside, but I'm behaving.

Because Tommy? Seriously? What am I, a five-year-old in a cartoon with a slingshot in my back pocket? No offense to five-year-olds or slingshots, but still.

Dad just smiled like he hadn't heard the thousand silent screams in my head. Probably proud that I hadn't snapped. Yet.

I stepped inside, my sneakers sticking slightly to the shiny tile like even they were unsure about this whole thing. The office smelled like fresh paper and coffee and something floral that was either a candle or just Margaret Stanford's entire personality.

"Let's sit down and have a chat, shall we?" she said.

I nodded, trying not to look as panicked as I felt. Internally, my brain was just repeating one phrase on loop: Don't call me Tommy. Don't call me Tommy. Don't call me—

Anyway. That's how it started. The job. The next chapter. Whatever. I hadn't even sat down yet and I already felt like I was on some undercover reality show where the prize was surviving humiliation with dignity intact.

Spoiler: I was not winning that prize.