Horace’s mouth was a straight line, and his head shook a little, the veins bulging out of his neck, as if it were about to pop off and explode. He glared at her as he cut a tiny piece of fish and jammed it into his mouth, chewing so hard I heard his teeth grind.

It would be hard to explain to you the terror of that moment. The way anger can billow out of somebody like heat from a furnace, how it can spread silently across the room and wrap you up tight like a smothering blanket.

Horace finished his fish, calmly placed his knife and fork across the plate, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He took a sip of his iced tea.

“Another thing, honey,” said Mom.

The plastic glass cracked in Horace’s hand, splintering into pieces, a mix of blood and sweet tea pouring out over the crisp white tablecloth.

Horace leapt up from the table. “Our bedroom, now!”

They went in there and slammed the door. I heard them fight, hollering and screaming. Then I heard some other sounds coming from in there. Happy sounds, like they were giggling together, laughing. It was hard to imagine Horace giggling, but there it was. Murphy and I could hear it drifting out from under the door.

They didn’t come out of the bedroom the rest of the night.

This meal with Grandma was the exact opposite of that night. Even though we didn’t talk much, the food and the company seemed to do all the work for us. We were all so happy to be there, so happy to eat and find our bellies full, so happy to feel loved—because that’s how Grandma made me feel, loved, appreciated, grateful—that I didn’t need conversation, I didn’t need to say a word. I just wanted to sit there at the table together like a family.

I can’t tell you how good that felt, how good it was to feel safe and at home.

A voice sounded from the back of the house.

“Hello? Mrs. Sanford?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said Grandma. She raised her voice and hollered, “In here!”

A girl walked into the kitchen—about my age, maybe a little older. She was tall and skinny with reddish hair down to her shoulders. She wore a cutoff gray T-shirt and black jeans with holes in them. Tattoos covered her arms, the stick and poke kind, homemade. Her hair was greasy, and she looked like she hadn’t bathed in a week. But, like, in a good way. I don’t know how to describe it.

“Hi there,” she said. “Sorry to bother you, but Stephens burned our supper for tonight. Do you have anything you could spare us?”

“That boy isn’t much of a cook, is he?” said Grandma.

The girl shrugged.

“He’s alright,” she said. “He just gets distracted.”

“Well come on in, make yourself at home. I’ll fix you a plate to take back.”

Grandma pulled a platter from the cupboard and started piling it high with food. The girl leaned herself against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed over her chest like she was the coolest, least-bothered human in the entire world. For the first time she seemed to notice Murphy and me.