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.”