“Jack, it’s time to start the rosary.” Mr. Sanders shut the
“Sorry, I took a walk and lost track of time. I was stressed.
Work.” He shivered, pulling the hood of his dark blue sweatshirt
closer around his neck.
“We’re all waiting on you,” chimed the mother, fetching the
worn broom from its hook inside the pantry door.
thrust into his hands.
“Sweep.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll sweep now, geez.”
“What?”
“I’m tired of your sass, young man,” his father scolded.
“What did I say?”
If you can’t learn this with your family how do you expect to keep
a job for more than a day?”
“Two weeks,” the boy mumbled.
“What was that?” demanded his father.
“Nothing.”
Abby, impatient, called the terrier over to where she sat in
across tile emanated from the kitchen.
“Strider, come here. Now sit, down, good boy! Mom—
Strider’s tail’s got stickers again. I’ll pull them out.”
“Be gentle, honey—remember what I told you? Hold
locating and eliminating the spiny, circular landmines: evidence of
“Honey, I can’t get Skype to connect. Can you—”
Then wash your hands.”
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