Ryan and Alex shared a nervous glance, unfamiliar with the Daly family dynamic and what sort of consequences might result from Kimmy’s teasing. But Scott appeared to be completely accustomed to this sort. He turned to John and said, “What did I tell you?,” as though they had spent all afternoon commiserating about the abuses of their children.

Kimmy looked like she desperately wanted to say it a third time, but she managed to restrain herself.

They lit citronella candles when the bugs came out, set up a boom box on the deck, and listened to Steely Dan as they ate.

Midway through the meal, Scott tipped his chin in Ryan’s direction and said, “Alright, kid, so what’s this I hear about a fake moon?”

“What about it?”

Scott buttered his bread slowly, perfect as a painter, catching every corner. “Your mom was saying you’re big into conspiracies and junk.” He took a bite of his bread, washed it down with yet another generous swallow of whiskey. He now had an empty wine glass, empty beer bottle, and half-empty tumbler of whiskey sitting on the table before him.

“Not junk,” Lisa interjected. “Personally I find it fascinating.” She smiled broadly at Ryan.

Scott snorted. “Fake moon, schmake schmoon.”

Ryan was unaffected. “I like reading about that stuff,” he said pleasantly.

Kimmy piped up, “Fake moon?”

Scott gestured toward Ryan with his thumb and spoke with a full mouth. “Einstein here”—he coughed into his fist—“thinks the moon is a hologram.” A large bread crumb had attached itself to his goatee.

“I think it’s possible,” Ryan said. “True or not, I like thinking about possibilities.”

Lisa said, “I do too.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Scott said. The crumb was still in the goatee. It trembled when he spoke but did not fall.

Poppy regretted that she’d brought up Ryan’s conspiracy theories earlier—she certainly hadn’t anticipated that Scott would use this as a source of mockery. It didn’t help that Lisa was falling all over herself with interest. Poppy suspected Lisa was just playing this up to maximize Scott’s irritation, but who knew?

“Kids and conspiracies, man,” Scott said. “I imagine you’re a fan of that freaky Manson guy too.”

Ryan said, “Huh?”

“That singer,” Scott said, “who all the kids are into. The one with the white eyeball who takes his wiener out onstage.”

Kimmy said, “Gah-ross.” She stuffed her index fingers into her ears.

The sound of Kimmy’s voice seemed to have an immediate softening effect on Scott, even in his drunken agitation. He reached across the table to rumple her hair fondly. “You’re right,” he said. “Gah-ross.”

“Oh.” Ryan laughed. “Marilyn Manson. I don’t care for his music. Guy’s got some interesting politics, though.”

“Figures.”

Kimmy said, “Who would’ve made the moon, if it’s fake? Why?”

Poppy tried to save Ryan. “We don’t have to go down this path,” she said, sending around the large bowl of sliced watermelon for the third time. “Let’s talk about the weather instead.”

But Alex was ready to jump in, having heard her brother’s spiel at home before. “The government,” she explained to Kimmy.