“God, Elizabeth. It’s not a big deal.” Jonah snickers now, too, so I say, “The plumbing has given us problems in the past, so I was double-checking to make sure Nick is comfortable.”

She smiles. “This is the first I’ve heard of our plumbing problems.”

“That’s because I always get to them first.”

Jonah laughs. “Touché!”

“Touché, indeed,” Elizabeth says, and they all raise a glass, or a can, to my wit.

Jonah heads to the kitchen and returns with four plates and a paper bag, distributing foil-wrapped burritos, plastic cutlery, paper napkins, hot sauce. Everyone’s so chummy, so goddamn playful, that Jonah even suggests Scrabble at one point. Nick declines, saying Scrabble would keep them up all night, and Jonah asks Nick when he became a geriatric, so Nick explains that he doesn’t want to push it and get sick again. For this, Jonah calls Nick a loser, and Elizabeth smacks Jonah in the face with a pillow, and Nick high-fives Elizabeth for defending his honor, and my head nearly explodes.

I seethe. Inside, I scream, but my rage is invisible. It’s a talent. I mime boredom, stretching and forcing a yawn. Checking the time. Eventually saying, “Well, I guess we should call it.” Wendy and her Lost Boys don’t follow, though, so I drum my belly with open palms, and say, “Bedtime?” With this, their lively conversation halts, but only so all three of them can stare at me like I said, Bath time? Like what I said was wrong.

Elizabeth smiles at last, and her judgment vanishes. Another talent. “I’ll be up in a bit.” And she’s Wendy again. So. Whatever. I’ll sit and wait. Wait, watch, and listen.

They talk of feelings and aesthetics. Colette’s goddamn braid. Flagrant sentimentality. It’s such a shame, what we’ve done to our boys. We’ve taken away their power. These days, kids aren’t allowed to develop strategy, because kids aren’t allowed to be picked on or to pick upon. These days, assholes are called bullies, and sticks and stones are reported promptly to the principal for ignominious review. Children pass the buck without ever discovering how to defend themselves, how to attack, whether by baseball bat or random acts of kindness. I don’t need a baseball bat. I don’t need lawyers or restraining orders or ultimatums, either. I have brains.