Doug smiled. The boy took after his mother. Trish was always a bear when she first woke up: silent, uncommunicative, nasty. He, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite. He was, as one of his old roommates had put it, “disgustingly cheerful” in the morning, and he and Trish had long learned to stay out of each other’s way the first half-hour or so after waking.

He let Billy reclaim the sheet, and although the boy instantly hid his head, he knew he was awake and would soon be coming down.

Doug walked downstairs, offering a parting “Get up,” which received no response. He sat down at the formica counter that separated the living room and the kitchen and that they used as a breakfast table.

Trish, stirring the oatmeal, turned around. “What are your plans for today?”

He grinned. “It’s summer. I have no plans.”

She laughed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She turned off the burner on the stove and moved over to the cupboard from which she withdrew three bowls. “I thought you were supposed to get that boy up.”

“He is up.”

“He’s not at the table, and I don’t hear any noise upstairs.”

“Want me to go up there and get him?”

She shook her head. “I’ll do it.” She moved into the living room and looked up at the railing of the loft. “Time to eat,” she called out. Her loud voice had an edge of anger in it, whether real or not Doug was unable to tell. “Breakfast is ready.”

A moment later, they heard the sound of feet hitting the floor and two minutes later Billy was coming down the stairs.

After breakfast, Trish went out to work on the garden. Billy finished watching the Today show, then took off on his bike to practice motocross moves in the forest. There was a bike tournament coming up at the end of July, and he wanted to be in it. “Be careful,” Doug called from the porch as the boy pedaled furiously down the dirt path that wound through the trees toward the hill, but Billy either didn’t hear him or didn’t intend to be careful and didn’t say anything back.

Trish looked up from her weeding. “I don’t like him riding that bike the way he does.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s dangerous. He’s going to break an arm or leg someday. I wish you wouldn’t encourage him.”

“I don’t encourage him.”

She smiled teasingly. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t feel a little macho thrill every time he goes careening off into the underbrush?”

“ ‘Careening off into the underbrush?’”

“All right, Mr. Teacher. It’s summer. Quit lecturing.”

He chuckled. “Those who can, teach.”

She playfully stuck her tongue out at him, then returned to her weeding.