Thursday, August 20, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
August made Point Place feel restless.
School was coming back soon, and adults acted like it was a deadline they could feel in their bones. Moms bought notebooks and shoes. Kids got quieter in the evenings, like they could sense the end of freedom. Fathers got sharper, like they could sense bills stacking up under the surface.
Red had been working late again.
Kitty didn't talk about it directly, but Monica saw it in small things:
Kitty counting change twice before sending Laurie to the corner store.
Kitty cutting coupons with a tight smile.
Kitty trying to convince Red to "take it easy" and Red pretending he hadn't heard her.
And after the picnic incident, the neighborhood had gotten politer—the dangerous kind of polite.
Smiles too wide. Greetings too cheerful. Conversations that stayed shallow because everyone remembered Red's voice cutting through the backyard.
Red didn't apologize.
He didn't soften.
But Monica noticed something else:
Red watched Monica more closely now.
Not like a threat.
Like a question.
On Thursday evening, Red came home earlier than usual.
Kitty looked up from the kitchen, startled. "Red? You're home!"
Red grunted. "Shift got cut."
Kitty's smile froze for half a second—too fast to be accidental.
Then she forced cheer. "Oh! Well… that's nice! We can have dinner together!"
Red didn't respond.
Monica felt the air tighten immediately.
Shift got cut.
That wasn't "nice."
That was a problem.
Laurie came sweeping in, already in her pajamas, face bright like she sensed opportunity. "Does that mean you can take me to the store?"
Red's gaze snapped to her. "No."
Laurie's face twisted. "Why not?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Because I said no."
Laurie huffed. "You're always saying no."
Red's eyes narrowed. "And you're always asking."
Kitty rushed to smooth it over. "Laurie, honey, Daddy had a long day—"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty. "Kitty."
Kitty froze.
Monica moved automatically—quietly setting the table without being asked, because motion helped Kitty, and tasks helped Red.
Eric toddled in, sticky hands already reaching for food. "Hungry!"
Kitty's face softened instantly. "Okay, honey—wash your hands."
Eric whined.
Red's jaw tightened.
Monica stepped in before Red could snap. "Eric," Monica said gently, "I'll help."
Eric blinked at her, then shuffled toward the sink because Monica's voice was calmer than Red's and firmer than Kitty's.
Kitty mouthed a grateful thank you at Monica over Eric's head.
After dinner, Kitty tried to pull Red into the living room like she always did when she sensed tension.
"We could watch something," Kitty suggested brightly. "Maybe a movie?"
Red grunted. "I'm going to the garage."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Red—"
Red didn't look at her. "Need to check something."
Kitty watched him go, shoulders tight.
Then she looked at Monica, and her voice softened. "Honey… could you… go keep Daddy company?"
Monica's chest tightened.
Kitty said it like it was casual.
But it wasn't.
Kitty wanted Monica to act like glue.
Kitty wanted Monica to make Red softer, because Monica could reach him in ways Kitty couldn't when he was in this mood.
Monica didn't want to be glue.
But she also didn't want Red's mood to spill over into the house.
So Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
She slipped out to the garage.
_____
Red had the workbench light on, the rest of the garage dim and smelling like oil. He wasn't fixing anything important. He was cleaning tools that were already clean—scrubbing them like he could scrub the day off with them.
Monica stepped inside quietly and waited at her usual spot—close enough to be useful, far enough not to irritate him.
Red didn't look up. "You're supposed to be in bed."
Monica answered politely. "Mommy asked me to come."
Red's jaw tightened. "She did."
Monica didn't respond.
Red kept scrubbing for a moment, then finally—without looking at her—he muttered, "What did you hear at that picnic."
Monica blinked.
Red wasn't asking if she was okay.
Red was asking for information.
Because Red treated information like ammunition.
Monica kept her tone calm. "They talked about the plant."
Red's scrubbing slowed.
"What else," Red said, voice flat.
Monica hesitated.
Then answered honestly—but carefully. "They talked about me."
Red's hand froze.
The rag stopped moving.
Red's voice went lower. "What did they say."
Monica's chest tightened, but she didn't dramatize. "They said… I'm off. Maybe slow."
Red's jaw clenched so hard Monica heard the faint click of teeth.
For a moment, Monica thought Red might slam something. Might curse. Might go storming down the street to Mrs. Thompson's house.
Instead, Red did something else.
He exhaled.
Long, controlled.
Then he set the rag down and finally looked at Monica—eyes sharp, but something softer underneath.
"You're not slow," Red said.
Monica nodded. "I know."
Red's brows pulled together. "How do you know."
Monica paused.
This was the dangerous part.
Because Monica did know.
Monica knew because she wasn't six inside.
But she couldn't say that.
So Monica chose a truth that sounded like a child.
"Because I think," Monica said simply.
Red stared at her for a beat, then grunted like he agreed.
He picked up the notepad from the workbench drawer—the same one he used for measurements and parts.
He flipped it open.
"Come here," Red said.
Monica stepped closer.
Red shoved a pencil toward her. "Write."
Monica's fingers curled around it automatically.
Red's voice was low, firm, like he was carving rules into stone.
"This town is going to keep sniffing around," Red muttered. "People like to feel better by finding something wrong with other people."
Monica nodded slightly.
Red tapped the notepad. "Write the rules again."
Monica hesitated. "Again?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Again."
Monica wrote carefully, small letters:
1. Don't waste.
2. Don't talk about our business.
3. Don't let them make you mad.
4. Respect your mother.
5. Don't trust Point Place.
6. Stick together.
Red stared at the list, jaw tight.
Then he added a new one.
"Seven," Red said. "You don't explain yourself to idiots."
Monica blinked.
Red's gaze sharpened. "Write it."
Monica wrote: 7. Don't explain yourself to idiots.
Red nodded once, satisfied.
Then he leaned closer, voice lower.
"This is important," Red said. "You understand?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "If someone calls you slow—what do you do."
Monica answered immediately, because she understood what Red wanted.
"I don't cry," Monica said.
Red grunted. "Good. What else."
Monica thought. Then said, "I act normal."
Red stared at her.
Again that flicker—surprise, suspicion.
Then approval.
"Yeah," Red muttered. "You act normal."
Red tapped the notepad with his finger. "And you work."
Monica blinked. "Work?"
Red's voice went rough. "You get good at something."
Monica's chest tightened.
She already had plans. Big ones. Dangerous ones.
But Red didn't need to know that yet.
So Monica asked, small and safe, "Like… school?"
Red's jaw tightened. "School. Chores. Anything. You don't give them a reason to think they can talk about you."
Monica nodded slowly.
Red leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, eyes heavy. "They'll try anyway. But you don't make it easy."
Monica stood very still.
Red stared at her for a moment, then said something Monica didn't expect.
"Your mother worries," Red muttered.
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red's jaw flexed. "She wants everyone happy. She thinks if she smiles enough, people won't be cruel."
Monica didn't respond. She didn't have to.
Red's voice went lower. "But you… you see it."
Monica's throat tightened.
Because yes, she did.
Red's gaze held hers for a long beat, then he looked away like he didn't like how honest the moment felt.
"Good," Red muttered. "Then you'll be fine."
It wasn't a comfort.
It was a command: be fine.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red shoved the notepad into the drawer and shut it hard.
Then he grabbed a wrench and held it out to Monica.
"Hold this," Red said.
Monica took it carefully, surprised.
Red pointed at a small bolt on the workbench. "Loosen it."
Monica blinked. "I'm small."
Red's eyes narrowed. "So."
Monica tried.
Her hands weren't strong yet, but she braced the wrench with both hands and pushed carefully.
It didn't move.
Red watched her, expression unreadable.
Monica adjusted her grip, tried again.
The bolt shifted a fraction.
Red grunted. Approval.
"You don't quit because something's hard," Red said.
Monica swallowed. "Yes, Dad."
She pushed again.
The bolt turned.
Red nodded once, like he'd just seen proof of something.
Then—awkward, rough—Red reached out and steadied her hands on the wrench, guiding her grip.
His hands were big. Heavy. Warm from work.
Monica felt something settle in her chest.
This was how Red showed love:
Skills. Tools. Rules. Protection disguised as discipline.
When the bolt came free, Red released her hands immediately like he hadn't touched her at all.
"Good," Red muttered.
Monica set the wrench down carefully.
Red stared at her for a moment, then said, "If someone asks you questions—about the plant, about us—you tell them nothing."
Monica nodded.
Red's gaze sharpened. "What do you tell them."
Monica answered with the safest phrase in the world:
"I don't know."
Red grunted. "Good."
Monica hesitated, then asked quietly, "Dad?"
Red didn't look at her. "What."
Monica chose her words carefully, because this was the heart of it.
"Are we… okay?"
Red's jaw tightened.
He didn't like that question.
He didn't like admitting uncertainty.
But after a long beat, he muttered, "We will be."
Monica nodded.
Not because she believed him blindly.
Because she understood: Red needed to believe it for the house to function.
Red pointed toward the door. "Go on. Bed."
Monica turned to leave, then paused.
"Dad," Monica said softly.
Red's voice came rough. "Yeah."
Monica offered him the smallest truth she could, shaped into something he could accept.
"Thank you… for protecting us."
Red froze.
For a second, Monica thought she'd gone too far.
Then Red cleared his throat hard, like the words had scratched it.
"Yeah," Red muttered. "Whatever."
Monica didn't smile big.
She didn't react too much.
She simply nodded and went inside.
_______
That night, Monica opened her Future Box.
She added something new:
A tiny metal washer Red had let her keep from the bolt—small, ordinary, meaningless to anyone else.
But to Monica, it meant:
You are being trained.
Not as a child.
As a survivor.
She wrote one new line on her folded note:
New rule: Don't explain yourself. "I don't know" is armor.
Then Monica lay down and stared into the dark, listening to the house creak.
Kitty's soft footsteps upstairs.
Red's heavier steps below.
Laurie shifting in bed like anger still lived under her skin.
Monica whispered her rule into the quiet:
"Act normal."
Then, softer—because tonight she felt the shape of her future a little clearer:
"Learn everything. Say nothing until it matters."