Fiction · Written by Anica Angela Nicole Modena Hill
The Soft Protocol
Fiction · Written by Anica Angela Nicole Modena Hill
The Soft Protocol
Daniel left his phone face down on the kitchen table.
Someone had dismissed his account of being strangled as something he had invented. Since hearing that, he had been rehearsing explanations while washing dishes, waiting for the kettle, and trying to sleep.
He kept searching for a sentence that would make people listen.
Across the table, his sister, Biaosh, moved an unopened envelope away from his cup.
“You said you wanted to talk,” she said.
Daniel nodded. He had asked her to come over, but now he was watching the steam rise between them.
“Someone thinks I made it up,” he said.
Biaosh waited.
“The part about being grabbed by the throat,” he added.
He looked down at his hands. Even here, in his own kitchen, he felt the need to explain himself carefully. He worried that anger would make him seem unreasonable and that speaking too quietly would make the experience sound unimportant.
“Are you safe now?” Biaosh asked.
The question interrupted the explanation he had prepared.
“Yes. Right now, I am.”
“Okay. What would help?”
Daniel rubbed his thumb along the handle of his cup.
“I need to finish telling you.”
She pulled her chair closer to the table.
He spoke slowly. There were things he could describe clearly and things he wanted to leave for another day. When he paused, she let the silence stand. When he asked for a moment, she gave him one.
Later, his tea had gone cold. His phone was still face down.
The conversation had not settled what he would do next. Before Biaosh left, they agreed she would call him the following morning.
Daniel walked her to the door.
“You can call earlier,” she said.
He nodded, then returned to the kitchen. Two cups sat on the table. He put them beside the sink and plugged in his phone.
The next morning, Biaosh called while he was standing in front of the open refrigerator.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m looking.”
“That usually means no.”
He moved a jar from one shelf to another, then put it back.
“There are eggs,” he said.
“Start there.”
Daniel took two out and closed the door. He rested his phone against the sugar tin, turning the volume up so he could hear her while he found a pan.
For a few minutes, they talked about ordinary things. Her bus had broken down. The shop near his building had changed its opening hours. A parcel meant for someone upstairs had been delivered to him again.
Then Daniel lowered the heat.
“I keep thinking I should have done something differently.”
Biaosh went quiet.
“I wish I knew what to say to that,” she said eventually.
He watched the edges of the eggs turn white.
“You don’t have to have an answer,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I just keep thinking it.”
“I can stay on the phone.”
He found a plate and carried it to the table.
Before they ended the call, Daniel asked her something he had forgotten to ask the night before.
“Please don’t tell anyone what I said. Even if you think they could help. Ask me first.”
“I will.”
“And if someone asks you about it?”
“I’ll tell them to speak to you.”
Daniel considered that.
“Tell them I’m not ready to talk.”
“All right.”
After the call, he sat with his breakfast. He had worried that asking for privacy would sound like asking her to doubt him. She had accepted the request without making him explain it.
That evening, Biaosh arrived carrying a paper bag.
“You said you had rice.”
“I do.”
“Good. I forgot to buy any.”
He laughed as he took the bag from her. Inside were two containers, still warm.
While he found plates, she told him about the rest of her day. He interrupted to ask a question. She stopped to show him a photograph on her phone. They ate at the same table where he had struggled to speak the night before.
There were things Daniel still wanted to tell her. Halfway through dinner, he almost began.
Then he asked whether she wanted more rice.
She passed him her plate.
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