“Honey, could you have a look at this thing?” called Mrs.
Sanders from the desktop in the living room.
“What’s up?”
The terrier yelped.
screeched Abby. From the kitchen came the sound of a broken
dish. Mrs. Sanders cringed.
“Sorry!” exclaimed Jack. He pulled his foot from the
remains of a 1957 Desert Rose dinner plate. Gathering the larger
“It’s slobbery. Strider must have been licking it.”
Scoop leftovers into his bowl,” scolded the mother.
“It’s my fault, I’m guilty,” cried Mr. Sanders in exaggerated
pantomime. He struck his chest. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea
maxima culpa!”
“Dad, I’m done!” cried Jack.
“Let me check.” Mr. Sanders made a few clicks with the
mouse before turning from the light glow of the monitor and
waltzing toward the kitchen.
“No, Dad, really, it’s a good job!” insisted Jack, lifting his
head from the kitchen sink where he was scrubbing with futile
effort at the tree sap on his hands. Displeased with the results, he
reached for the dish soap and tried again.
“Honey?” called Mrs. Sanders from the living room.
“Did Patch mention his user name? Did he use his school
account info?”
“I don’t know, text him.”
“Honey?”
your work ethic? Didn’t we teach you anything?” Exhaling, Mr.
44