All remaining fifty-six minutes of violence and mayhem.

We leave when the credits roll, and Cooper is enthusiastically reliving every detail of the big fight scene. In his mind, he’s part Jackie Chan, part John Cena, and more bad-ass than the two of them put together.

While Coop’s on a high, Bo’s mood has turned and he’s angry, and particularly angry at Coop for being happy. “You’re so stupid,” I hear Bo tell Cooper. “You couldn’t fight anyone. You’re the biggest chicken I know.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.”

I face Bo. “What are you doing? Why are you being mean?”

“I can fight,” Cooper protests.

Bo is oblivious to everything but making his point. “You can’t even play sports. How do you think you could fight?”

“I play sports—”

“You still don’t even know how to cradle the ball,” Bo interrupts scornfully. “Why do you think you were always on defense?”

“Because I was good at defense.”

“Because you couldn’t play offense. Defense is where they stick the losers.”

“That’s it. That’s enough.” I step between them, hands pushing them farther apart. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight. If you’re going to fight, let’s just go home and we can skip dinner and you can fight to your heart’s content. But if you want to eat tonight, you’ll shut your mouths now.”

And then Bo—damn him—opens his mouth. “I played better at eight than you do at twelve—”

I grab Bo then, seizing his upper arm hard, and haul him toward me. I know the parenting books say we’re not supposed to manhandle our kids, but Jesus, there’s got to come a point when they listen. “Did you not hear me, Bo Thomas Darcy? I said not one word, and yet you had to—”

“It’s true. He can’t play. He doesn’t practice—”

I let go then, disgusted. Biting back curses, I reach into my purse for my keys as I walk away. “You boys better get in the truck now,” I call over my shoulder, because I’m done. Done arguing. Done pleading. Done being nice. Today has been exhausting from beginning to end, and all I want now is some peace and quiet in my own room.

“Now look what you did,” Cooper mutters as they follow after me. “If you’d just shut up!”

Miraculously, Bo doesn’t answer, and silently they climb into the truck, scooting as far from me as they can on the seat.

I don’t even look at them as I drive. I’m too mad.

Hank’s at the breakfast table when I enter the kitchen in my flannel shorts and T-shirt the next morning. He’s already dressed and eating the toasted, buttered bagel that’s his breakfast every morning before school.

“Morning,” I greet him, kissing the top of his head. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Studying.”

I pull out a seat at the table and sit across from him, my head as thick as cotton wool. “Are you having trouble in school?”

“No.