The Three Numbers

When I pushed the door open, the hallway sensor light came on. My son Larry was lying on the shoe bench in the hallway, clutching a crayon. "Dad, you're back." He looked up at me and smiled, with a bit of blue paint on his face. I bent down and rubbed the top of his head, my fingers brushing his soft baby hair. "What are you drawing?" Larry handed me the paper he was holding, with a few crooked circles scribbled on it. As I looked, he suddenly blurted out a string of numbers. "92、70、92。" His voice was clear, and he repeated it twice. I froze for a moment, then looked down at him. "Larry, where did those numbers come from?" He blinked his big eyes and pointed toward the living room. "Mom said them." Just then, Quincy Scott walked over from the living room carrying a cup of water. She wore beige loungewear, her hair casually tied back. "What's going on?" I looked up at her and repeated what Larry had said. "Larry said you taught him 92, 70, 92. What does that mean?" Quincy's eyes flickered so briefly it was almost unnoticeable. Soon, she regained her calm expression. "Oh, it's nothing." She reached out to pull Larry closer, her tone casual. "The school assigned some interest homework, asking the kids to memorize number combinations." I stared at her face, trying to find a slip. She avoided my gaze and instead reached out to pat Larry's head. "Stop bothering Dad, he's tired from work." Larry obediently nodded, then grabbed the paper and ran back to his room. Only Quincy Scott and I remained in the living room. There was an unshakable heaviness hanging in the air. I didn't press further, but it felt like something had stabbed at my heart. Interest homework? Larry's only in the middle of kindergarten, there's no way he'd have that kind of homework. That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Quincy Scott faced away from me, breathing steadily, like she was already asleep. I kept staring at her back, the three numbers looping over and over in my mind. 92、70、92。 What the hell is this? The next morning, after washing up and heading downstairs, Quincy Scott had already made breakfast. Larry was sitting at the dining table, quietly sipping his milk. "I'm going to work late at the company today. I'll be back later." I grabbed a slice of bread and said casually. Quincy Scott just said 'hmm' and didn't ask any more questions. Her reaction was too calm, which only made me more suspicious. Whenever I worked overtime before, she'd always remind me to be careful. After leaving the house, I sat in the car but didn't start the engine right away. I took out my phone and typed '92 70 92' into the search bar. The results on the screen were all over the place, mostly irrelevant information. I frowned and closed the search page. Maybe I'm just overthinking it.