A flight of fancy not far from the truth. His mother sat on a frayed ottoman, glancing nervously toward the averted eyes of her Germanic….was it, “guest?” Brandon thought back to gatherings at his or (more often) his aunt’s house; thought of the din of his cousins and him at play, of adults engaged in a spectrum of conversations spanning the hyper-intellectual and the (as they thought Brandon and the other kids didn’t notice) profane; of laughter and a feeling that everyone was actually happy to be there.

This evening didn’t feel like that. His father had his wife (he struggled with “stepmother”) didn’t feel or act like guests. It felt, if he was honest — which he could be only in silence, with himself as sole audience and judge — like a hostage negotiation.