“It’s a meteorological array, Mother. Deconstruction implies destruction. This is selective reassembly .”
The garage fell silent. Outside, a real wind picked up—no sensors needed.
She left. Missy crunched her Pop-Tart. “She’s gonna cry later. You know that, right?”
“Thank you, honey.”
Mary sighed. That sigh had a PhD in Sheldon-related fatigue. “Fine. But if I find another capacitor in the butter dish, we’re having a talk.”
“You’re breathing on the thermistor,” said Missy, sitting on an overturned bucket, eating a Pop-Tart.
“You’re being a weirdo.”
“Because you’ve been out here for six hours, and Dad’s watching football alone, and Georgie tried to microwave a Hot Pocket without removing the foil, and nobody cares because you’re building a weather station .”