Half-points, Roy thought. He wanted his parents to leave, wanted all the kids to fall into deep naps, so that he and Teresa could get back to the bedroom. But what were half-points, anyway? She was the one who had introduced the whole point system into their sex life. It was fun, it was exciting, but all of a sudden it seemed like something Walter might have concocted when Roy was a child to gauge how accurately Roy had cleaned the rain gutters. And why was he settling for half-points?

“How about that,” Walter said. “Buzz Aldrin’s a West Point man. Top of his class, ‘51.”

The dog had lumbered up to the near end of the slide and was licking at one of the water jets.

Roy leaned forward in his chair. “Come here, Dwight.”

Dwight didn’t move.

“You have to snap,” Walter said.

Roy immediately began snapping his fingers. “Dwight. Come here.”

Moving his mouth away from the spray, licking at the air, Dwight glanced at Roy skeptically.

Roy snapped. “Here.”

“He’ll warm up to you,” Helen said. “Just give him time.”

Roy snapped again. Dwight walked lazily over to the lawn chair and sat down between Roy’s feet, his tongue hanging limp now over his remaining lower teeth.

Helen looked at Walter. “Did you tell them about the ketchup?”

“We haven’t gone over the details yet,” Walter said to the magazine.

“He likes a little ketchup on his food,” Helen told Roy. “Canned food. He won’t eat the dry. And just a little ketchup or he’ll turn into a fountain at the other end, and you won’t want that.”

Roy scratched the dog’s neck.

The sliding glass door opened and Teresa stepped out onto the patio, dusting her hands. She smiled cautiously. “So are we all decided on this?”

“We’re kind of … half decided,” Roy said. He continued to pat Dwight’s head and with his other hand hooked a finger beneath the dog’s leather collar.

“What half is that?” Walter asked, sounding suspicious.

Roy looked at Teresa. The set of her face had instantly changed; she looked panicked. “We’ll take the dog,” Roy said—to all of them, keeping his eyes on Teresa. “But he has to live in the backyard.”

“Dwight lives inside,” Walter said.

“He used to. From here on out, he’s a backyard dog. Which means we’ll need a doghouse.”

For what felt like a long stretch, all adult noise dropped away; there was only the sound of the children as they hustled up and down the slide. His father, Roy knew, was weighing the matter.

Finally, Walter said, “Well.” He cleared his throat. “You can get one of those at Babcock’s.”

“You’ll have to get it for us, Pop.” Roy scrubbed the top of Dwight’s knobby head with his fingernails.

“We can do that,” Helen said. “Can’t we, Walt?”