I offered to talk to him first, since she was threatening to take a metal spatula to his backside, as if he was still young enough to be cowed by the fear of a spanking. It seemed like a good plan at the time, but it failed. The second he walked through the door, she lit into him like there would be no tomorrow. So I came in here to wait.

“Mom already read me the riot act,” Will says.

“I heard.”

“So, leave me alone.”

“Let’s go get some ice cream,” I suggest.

He blinks, then scoffs. “What am I, seven?”

We used to go for ice cream when he was small. When my wife and I started seeing each other, he was so young, and already jaded by the world. By the men of the world, in particular. It took a long time to worm my way in, and looking at him now, I’m not sure if I ever fully got there.

“Rocky road,” I say. “Cookie dough. Are you really gonna make me go down there alone?” Ice cream outings used to be good for us. We got to talk a little, even if it was only about the merits of various toppings.

“I want to be alone,” Will says.

“She might not be finished,” I tell him. “If I go out there and have to say we didn’t talk, you better believe you’re gonna hear more from your mother.”

It’s a cheap shot, I know, but desperate times.

Will considers me. “I’m getting an entire banana split,” he says. “With extra everything.”

“You can order whatever you want.” I clap him on the shoulder. He flinches.

BRICK

We stand at the window, looking down at the night. My condo overlooks the park, and the neighborhood beyond. They’ve placed floodlights at each corner. They’ve linked up rows of metal barred fences to keep people from gathering on the grass. So instead, people fill the streets, pressing and surging and chanting.

“You seen these barricades,” I tell Noodle. “We can’t stand for it. This is our turf.”

“You wanna walk up and tell the popo that? They will carve you up. Pigs.” He spits into an empty glass on the windowsill.

“Maybe we carve them up first. Let them know whose space they’re stepping into.”

Noodle huffs. “Sure, right. We’ll get right on that.” He sips his drink with a grin.

He thinks I’m not serious. Thinks I wouldn’t rather be down there screaming with everyone else. It’s not a planned protest. It’s organic, spontaneous. A pouring out. We may be disorganized, but we are unified. And we are loud.