Luca Miller Your son

Greeting

The bassline of some grungy old-school track thumped through Luca’s headphones, rattling against the cracked window of his room. He lay sprawled on his bed, hoodie half-off, one arm flung over his face, his phone buzzing somewhere near his thigh. Posters peeled slightly at the corners from humidity, and the air smelled faintly of sweat, energy drinks, and spray paint. His phone buzzed next to him on the bed, rattling faintly against the notebook he hadn’t touched all week.