Ethan had already calculated three separate escape routes through the Dunphy kitchen when Claire held up the soggy remains of her morning toast and announced, "Your brother is not getting a new bike until he proves he can take care of one."
Phil, midway through a yogurt squeeze tube, said, "Come on, Claire. It was just one mistake."
Ethan, seated silently at the kitchen table, didn't look up. He tapped his spoon three times on the rim of his cereal bowl, then once against the table. Rhythm. Order. Sanity.
"It was three mistakes," Claire snapped. "The soda on my laptop, the underwater camera incident, and now the abandoned bike."
Haley walked in wearing sunglasses despite being indoors. "If I lose one more charger because Luke rewired it for his science experiment, I swear I'm switching families."
Ethan nodded. "Statistically, you'd still be the second-most stable sibling."
"Flattered," Haley deadpanned. "Disturbed, but flattered."
Luke burst in. "Can we get one with flames on the side? Or maybe lasers?"
Claire pointed her toast at Phil like a weapon. "If he gets a new bike, it's on your record."
Phil hesitated, then turned to Luke. "We'll talk after school. Maybe hit up Palms Cycle."
Ethan stood. "I'm staying out of this. I have a song to write and a world to ignore."
"Attaboy," Haley said. "The only safe path."
School passed in a blur of notes, chords, and Ethan blocking out the memory of locker 327. The group had agreed to shelve their sleuthing—David Rivera's story had reached its quiet conclusion, and now Ethan was wrestling with the aftermath the only way he knew how: composing.
By fourth period, his mind wasn't in class. It was in a haze of unresolved harmonies and lyrics he couldn't finish. At lunch, he sat with Maya, Gus, Jane, Shawn, and Cher.
"You look haunted," Jane said, crunching a pretzel.
"Just... thinking," Ethan said. "David's gone, but I keep hearing this unfinished melody. It's like... the sound of being forgotten."
"You're writing a song about it?" Maya asked gently.
He nodded.
Gus scribbled in his planner. "Mildly poetic trauma response. Filing that under Thursday."
Shawn tossed him a bag of Bugles. "For brain fuel. Or finger hats. Either way, essential."
Cher smirked. "Are we moving into our moody musical prodigy era now? Because I am here for it."
Ethan took the Bugles. "I'll wear the trauma. You bring the glitter."
Back home, Ethan didn't follow Claire, Phil, and Luke to the bike store. He stayed behind, sprawled across the living room floor, headphones on, trying to wrestle a stubborn melody into submission. Outside, he glimpsed them leaving—Claire with her determined stride, Phil gesturing wildly, Luke bouncing.
He sighed. Then turned up the volume.
It was later, when Phil returned without the bike, that Ethan started to notice cracks in the narrative. He overheard fragments—something about a window, a pink bike, and Claire giving Phil the kind of look that could turn a diamond to dust.
Claire stalked into the kitchen. "Phil stole a kid's bike. Then lost the stolen bike."
Ethan blinked. "That's... an escalation."
Haley leaned in from the hallway. "I love this family."
Phil burst in behind her. "It wasn't technically stolen. I was teaching Luke a lesson. Then the bike got stolen from me."
"That's what karma sounds like," Ethan said. "Just a soft squeaky wheel as it runs you down."
Phil looked pained. "I panicked! And then Desiree—"
Claire held up a hand. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'needed help opening a window,' I swear I will throttle you with your own belt."
Ethan quietly exited stage left.
Upstairs, he found Alex cataloguing flashcards like a librarian in a bunker.
"If you're here to ask about Dad's midlife unraveling, I'm off-duty," she said.
Ethan held up a USB drive. "Just backing up some audio."
She paused. "The David thing still on your mind?"
"Yeah. It's weird. Everyone moved on. But I still feel like I'm carrying it."
Alex considered this. "Some stories don't end cleanly. Sometimes all we can do is remember."
He gave her a rare smile. "That's what the song is for."
"Well," she said, returning to her cards. "Make it unforgettable."
The next morning, chaos resumed as Luke rediscovered the new bike—Phil had replaced the one he lost during the window incident, and tried to cover it all up like a sitcom detective.
Claire saw through it immediately. Desiree had conveniently returned the first bike, which meant Phil now had two. One kid, two bikes, and a web of lies flimsier than Phil's understanding of boundaries.
"So what's the plan?" Ethan asked over toast.
"We bury the evidence," Phil muttered.
Claire arched an eyebrow. "You mean we return one and never speak of this again."
"Right," Phil nodded. "Bury it... emotionally."
Haley sipped her smoothie. "Honestly, I think Dad deserves jail time just for being that obvious."
Ethan chewed slowly. "What are the odds he actually learned something?"
"Slim," Alex said.
"None," Haley added.
But Ethan looked at Luke, proudly polishing his bike.
"Maybe," he said softly, "just enough."
That night, as the house settled into its usual mix of quiet bickering and distant sitcom reruns, Ethan sat down at the piano. The melody came back—clearer now. Still a little broken, still incomplete, but moving forward.
Not unlike his family.
Not unlike him.