That version of the story would later annoy Michael.
People liked saying:
Cat finds meteorites.
Man gets rich.
That was not what happened.
There were months of documentation.
Cleaning by professionals.
Classification fees covered partly by the university.
Dealer commissions.
Taxes.
Legal costs.
Several fragments were donated for research.
Howard’s separate collection remained his.
Michael sold his first batch to three collectors for $18,600 gross.
After fees and taxes reserved, he kept far less.
Still, the deposit made him stare at his banking app until the screen dimmed.
He refreshed it.
Again.
Again.
Bruno jumped onto the table.
Michael looked at him.
“You did this.”
Bruno rubbed against the phone.
Michael picked him up.
For the first time in months, Michael cried.
Not dramatically.
Just exhaustion leaving through whatever exit it found.
The first thing he did was not buy a truck.
He called his mother.
“Mom.”
“Are you working?”
“No.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you sound weird?”
Michael laughed.
“I’m paying Dad’s medication for the next year.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I’m sending enough to cover the current prescriptions and the outstanding pharmacy balance.”
“Michael.”
“I already checked.”
“Michael, no.”
“Yes.”
“You need that money.”
“I have more coming.”
“What do you mean?”
He told her.
Not elegantly.
Cat.
Rocks.
University.
Meteorite.
Diane listened.
Then said:
“Your cat found space rocks.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“Are you taking drugs?”
Michael laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Eventually, she believed him.
Robert got on the phone.
His father rarely cried.
He did not cry then either.
He became quiet.
That was worse.
“Son.”
“Yeah?”
“You have done enough for us.”
Michael looked toward the two boxes that had once been trash.
“I know.”
“No.”
Robert’s voice strengthened.
“I mean it.”
“You’re twenty-nine.”
“You’re supposed to be building your life.”
“I am.”
“Not if every spare dollar comes here.”
Michael closed his eyes.
His father continued.
“Help us with the pharmacy balance if you want.”
“But then you do something for you.”
Michael smiled.
“I have an idea.”
That idea had existed for years.
Michael hated warehouse work.
Not physical work.
He liked fixing things.
Always had.
As a teenager, he repaired lawn mowers for neighbors.
In community college, he studied building maintenance.
He dropped out during his second year when Robert lost work temporarily and the family needed money.
Michael never returned.
Over the years, he kept doing side jobs.
Leaking faucets.
Drywall repair.
Cabinet installation.
Small decks.
Ceiling fans.
Appliance hookups.
Neighbors paid him.
Coworkers referred friends.
Once, a woman told him:
“You should do this full time.”
Michael laughed.
“Full time requires a van.”
“And tools.”
“And insurance.”