It took over an hour to prepare the meal, and Margot came home before he was finished, but she was touched by his thoughtfulness and she gave him a big hug as he slid the casserole dish into the oven. “I love you, Mr. Mom.”

He turned around, gave her a quick kiss. “I love you, too.”

Dinner wasn’t great, but it was better than he’d expected, and Margot praised the meal to high heaven, exaggerating its quality to such an embarrassing extent that Tony rolled his eyes and said, “Give it a rest, Mom.”

Daniel laughed, looked over at his wife. “Is this your subtle way of telling me you want me to cook dinner more often?”

“No—” she began.

“No!” Tony repeated.

“—I’m just touched by your thoughtfulness and I wanted to let you know.”

Tony pushed back his chair, stood. “This is getting too pukey for me. I’m out of here.”

They watched him go, smiling.

“It really is pretty good,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

As always, he offered to do the dishes and, as always, she turned him down. So he went out to the living room and watched the last part of the local news, then the national news. There was nothing on after that except reruns, game shows, and syndicated entertainment news, so he shut off the television and walked back into the kitchen, where Margot was eating an orange over the sink.

“Where’s Tony?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. His room, I guess.”

“Hiding in there?” She looked at him significantly. “Why don’t you go see what he’s doing.”

“He’s all right.

“Why don’t you check?”

He understood her concern, thought of his son walking alone through the crowds of students at school, thought of him sitting silently in the car, and nodded. “Okay.”

The door to the boy’s bedroom was closed, and Daniel walked quietly down the hallway and stood outside it for a moment, listening. He heard nothing, and he reached for the knob, turned it, pushed open the door.

Tony moved quickly, trying to hide something beneath the unmade covers of his bed.

A bolt of primal parental terror shot through Daniel.

Drugs, was his first thought.

He walked toward the bed, desperately trying not to think the worst. Let it be a Playboy, he prayed. Let it be a Penthouse.

He forced himself to smile at his son. “What you got there, sport?” He reached for the covers, pulled them up.

It was not drugs. It was not porno magazines.