N o . Hand me the red brick .” Michael and his father sit opposite each other , separated by a heap of toy bricks and a wrinkled manual for building a farm . “ But I want to make the horse red .” “ Horses aren ’ t red .” “ But it ’ s not a real horse ,” Michael says . “ Look .” His father points at the manual . “ The red bricks are for the barn , not the horses .” “ Okay . Here .” “ Good .” He lights a cigarette . Its smoke hangs between Michael and him before drifting to the yellow stained ceiling . “ When ’ s Mom coming home ?” “ I don ’ t know .” Michael frowns . “ She ’ d let me make red horses .” “ Michael . . .” “ I bet she ’ d let me make orange cows , too .” His father cracks his knuckles . “ She might even —” “ Damn it , Michael .” He stands and paces the living room , running his rough hand along the plaster walls . He scowls at a cross above the television and fiddles with his half-finished beer on the coffee table . Michael watches him uneasily . “ What ’ s wrong ?” “ Nothing .” “ Are you mad at me ?” Gravel crunches and a car whines outside . The rotten smell of gasoline squirms into the living room . Michael ’ s father ashes his cigarette and finishes his beer . “ Go to your room .” “ But that ’ s Mom , isn ’ t it ?” “ Yes .”