Had a Great Fall - The Wish Makers, Book 4 (PAPERBACK)

Chapter 1
Maybe I could call in sick. With something fatal. Something so contagious the entire high school would contract it just by looking at me. Was there such a thing? I took out my phone. “Okay, Google. What is visual contagion?”
“Good morning, Robin.”
For half a second I thought my phone had learned my name. And started speaking in my mom’s voice. I entered the kitchen and found Mom standing by the stove, dunking a tea bag in her cup.
“Morning.” I set my messenger bag by the back door and took a seat at the kitchen bar.
Google had only come up with only one direct hit and was now blinking at me, waiting for something that would challenge its storage banks. The ‘contagion’ it offered wasn’t even a disease. It was some company in Vancouver that spread positive messages on organic hemp or bamboo T-shirts. Great. I ask for science, I get hippies.
“Do you think Visual Contagion would be a good name for a band?” I asked Mom as I scrolled through a few of the T-shirt pictures.
“Hmm,” Mom said, tapping her fingernail against her teacup. “A band that plays music?”
My turn to sit and blink. “What other kind is there?”
“Plenty. A wrist band. Hairband. Wedding band. Waistband.”
“Okay, okay.” She’d go on and on and then open the thesaurus app on her tablet if I didn’t stop her. It’s her marketing background. Details were very important. “Mom, guys don’t think about hairbands and jewelry. Yes, I mean a band that plays music.”
“Then I’d say no. Visual Contagion, great a name as it is, would not work for a musical group.” She took a sip of her tea, Irish breakfast according to the tag hanging from the string, as she contemplated. “Auditory Contagion could work. Audio? Audial?”
Auditory Contagion would indeed be a damn cool name for a band. Almost made me want to form one. Except I couldn’t play a single instrument. Not even that plastic flute thing they made us play in elementary school. I might be able to compose something on my computer though. I needed music for my video game anyway.
“Okay, Google. Popular music software.”
“Would you like some breakfast?” Mom asked. “Or are you just going to play with your phone until it’s time to leave?”
My mom wasn’t the most domestic person. She did like to feed people though, and when she took the time to make an actual meal, she was a great cook.
I set my phone in my lap and analyzed my hunger level. “Juice and toast with butter and jam. Two slices.”
“Two? You’re hungry today. What kind of tea?” She held up her Irish breakfast to me with a questioning look and wiggled the box as if that would lure me to the Celtic side.
“English breakfast, please. With cream and two sugar cubes.”
“Off to the range,” my dad said as he entered the kitchen and set a black case—smaller than a briefcase, larger than a lunchbox—on the gray marble counter.
“Before work?” Mom asked. “You’ll be late.”
He was never late. Being at his desk before those he supervised got there was a must for Dad. He insisted, “The boss should set the example.”

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