Tanq stands over the hood of a jet-black Porsche, a tire iron raised toward the ceiling. Paint is everywhere, splattered over the fender, the windows, the garage’s epoxy floor, in all conceivable colors—as though Jackson Pollock suddenly discovered that Porsches make the best canvas.

With another scream, Tanq whips the tire iron down and shatters a headlight. She lifts it again, this time aiming for the windshield.

“Emmaline, sit,” I command, imagining wet paint all over my dog’s paws.

Tanq freezes at the sound of my voice, the tire iron held high. Tears stream down her cheeks, made into foggy gray rivulets by her eyeliner.

“What are you staring at?” she demands.

I look around the garage to avoid her glare. More cars—a Ferrari, a Lexus, and a couple sleek showpieces I don’t have a name for. The Ferrari is also splattered with paint, mostly greens and blues to contrast with the car’s candy-apple red. The color choices are vicious. They make the car look cheap.

“I’m looking at art,” I tell her in all seriousness.

Her lips part with surprise. Then: “I was going to do the Lexus next, but if you have an idea, help yourself to my paints.”

“Okay,” I say, stepping toward her backpack, which has been flung onto a workbench. “Extra points for vandalism, right?”

Tanq actually smiles, maybe the first I’ve seen from her. That man in the photo is definitely her dad.

The Lexus is pearlescent white, and it looks like it’s never been driven. Such perfection demands giant black splotches. As I sift through the pack looking for a tube of black paint, Trey says, “I have an idea,” and runs back into the house.

Tanq and I exchange a shrug, and then we get to work. She continues screaming and smashing, while I put dollops of black paint on the Lexus’s bright fender. Using my forefinger, I smear each one around, creating Rorschach-like inkblots that look like they should mean something but actually don’t.

“Fuck you, you fucking loser!” Tanq screams as she attacks the Porsche’s hub cabs. “Fuck you and your fancy cars and your trophy wife and your slimy hell spawn.”

She steps back, wipes a bit of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, and takes a moment to admire her handiwork. Her breathing comes heavy, but the tears have stopped.

“Hey, that’s not bad,” she says to me, indicating the Lexus with her chin. “That one looks like blood splatter.” She points to one particular blob.

“I was thinking an eagle in flight.”

“Definitely Barack Obama’s profile,” Trey says suddenly from the doorway. A silk comforter is balled up in his arms. “I found this in the master bedroom. I rubbed dirt from the orange-tree pot all over it.”