The sniper shifted uncomfortably on the sagging floral couch. Growing up it had felt just fine, even if it was a little worn in and a bit stained. But now, it felt like he was sitting in doll furniture. He felt too big, too tall, too out of place. On the wall was a cuckoo clock. Its loud, grating ticking always unnerved the sniper. It always seemed much too forward for the quant little living room. On the hour it spat out not a cuckoo bird, but a mustachioed kookaburra. The sniper averted his eyes down to his hat, which he was nervously fiddling with in his hands, suddenly remembering the stupid note from the bloody BLU spook. His mother bustled in, carrying a tray of pink lemonade. She was a stout woman, a good foot or two shorter than her son, with pink cheeks and a generally optimistic disposition. The sniper always had this strange thought that if she was an animal, she'd be a hen, clucking and bustling and picking. She set the tray down on the coffee table and then plopped herself down next to the sniper. She slapped her hands against his cheeks and frowned. "You haven't been eating, have you?" "No, I—I've been eating just fine, mum." "Hmm." She frowned and inspected him in that strange way mothers do, then plucked off his sunglasses. "I don't know why you where those indoors, the lighting's so dim. Your father hasn't gotten around to replacing the light bulbs." She licked her thumb and smoothed his hair. "Such a handsome boy. Always where. If only you took care of yourself. Now, don't be so quiet, pumpkin." She turned away from him and fished out knitting needles and a ball of yarn from somewhere within the depths of the fathomless couch. "How've you been? Have you been sleeping well?" She tsk'd. "You look so gaunt. Have you gotten around to settling down in a nice house, yet?" "I…" Her knitting needles clicked together, gossiping between themselves. "I'm working on that." "Mm." She pursed her lips together. "Best not mention that to your father." "Yeah, where is he?" "In his shed." The sniper exhaled through his nose. His father had a habit of disappearing for hours on end in his shed when his son came to visit. His eyes scanned the wall in front of him, adorned with flowered wallpaper and portraits. There was the school photos from every year—seeing them always made the sniper feel a little jolt in his stomach, terribly embarrassed of his gawky, lopsided, big-eared adolescence. Above them were a few wedding photos, too—the sniper couldn't help but notice that his father looked miserable even at his own wedding. And then… then there was Steve. Pictures of the sniper had stopped soon after his last year of high school, but his brother Steve's entire goddamn life was chronicled on the wall. Steve's first mustache, Steve's wedding, Steve's wombat farm… "When he comes in," his mother said, snapping him back into the conversation. "Try not to mention the J-O-B." "Yeah… yeah, that's probably a good idea." His mother paused, then set down her knitting and rested her plump, warm hand on his knee. "It's not too late to go to med school, Lawrence." The sniper winced. Not only was he grossly unused to hearing his own name, he had been subjected to the "doctor" talk more times than he could possibly count. "I don't want to go to med school, mum," he mumbled, fumbling with his hat again. "'Sides, I know a doctor. He and I make the same amount of cash, I swear it." Her eyes widened. "You're friends with a doctor?" "Well, not really friends, but—" A light bell tinkled from down the hall; someone had opened the door. A pair of boots scrapped against the welcome mat. "Muriel?" The sniper's father was making his way towards the living room. "How's about you put on a pot of tea and—" He stopped at the door frame, his drooping face turning into a low, bitter frown. "You're still here," he observed coldly, crossing his thick arms over his overalled chest. "I should probably be going, actually." The hastily sniper stood up and pulled his sunglasses out from his shirt pocket. "Need to get to the schoolyard early, I suppose? Want to make sure you've got a good spot to shoot at the kids when they go out to play, then?" His father leaned against the doorway, his nose wrinkled. "Oh, dear," sniper's mother groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I don't shoot kids, Dad!" the sniper snapped, crumpling his hat in his fist. "Then stop driving around in that bloody van, because it certainly says otherwise!" "There's nothing wrong with my van!" "Oh, sure. If you want to look like a registered sex offender!" The clock struck on the hour, and the kookaburra popped out, chortling at the sniper's misfortune. The note he had found in his hat came drifting back into his mind. What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra? The man drew in a sharp breath and smashed his hat on his head. "Have a good day," he growled, storming out through the screened front door. The bell tinkled cheerfully, like it was trying to brighten his spirits, but hearing it just pissed him off. His van was parked a long ways down the narrow dirt road that stretched out in front of the small house, and he found himself angrily storming away from an uncomfortably long time. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw his mother standing on the porch. She raised her hand to wave, but he turned his head before he noticed. He slapped his hands on the steering wheel of his van. He knew his mother was still watching him but he couldn't bring himself to look back at her. He wriggled his keys out of his pocket and jammed them into the ignition. The old girl took a few turns to start up but once she got going, she was a steady enough drive. He didn't quite care what he looked like, driving his van. It was convenient and it worked. That was all there was to it. He guided the van down along the road, fiddling with the radio. He needed to find something to get his mind off of things. That was one of the problems with his job. For the most part it was good, but it gave you too much time to think. It's not like now, in the van, where he could turn on music and get lost. He had to be all eyes and ears. If that bloody spy really wanted to know what the sniper thought about so badly, he should've come to visit his parents house with him.