Dakota started to cry again, his big head drooping over his almost empty mug. She could see the scar on the bridge of his nose, the one he got from fighting with Nicholas Bowcamp when he was in the tenth grade. The fight was over a comment Nicholas had made about their recently deceased father. Dakota shoved Nick, and he rebounded with a right hook that broke Dakota’s nose. Winnie remembered watching the whole thing go down from the stairs in front of the school, her stomach in her throat as she watched her twin beat Nicholas Bowcamp into the pavement. If it happened today, there would be dozens of videos all over the internet, but the most people did that day was watch and cheer. The boys were technically off school property. Nicholas Bowcamp spent two days in the hospital with a concussion. “He’s just lost his father,” their mother told the police officer who had come by the house. “He’s not usually like this.” The Bowcamps, who were devout Catholics, conferred with their priest and decided against pressing charges so long as Dakota sought counseling. The counseling had seemed to work for a while, and Dakota had attended youth group at a nondenominational church and gone on a mission trip to Mexico. He spouted Bible verses all summer and volunteered at the local animal shelter. Winnie remembered him always smelling of wet dog during that time. It was all fine and dandy until his senior year when he seemed to change overnight, shrugging off his religion and replacing it with a deep melancholy. He started smoking cigarettes and was suspended twice in one quarter for fighting.

Winnie was about to comfort him when she heard the front door open. A few seconds later, Samuel came bounding into the kitchen, a soccer ball tucked under his arm. He had what Winnie called the “hungry lion” look on his face. He headed straight for the fridge with barely a glance at the table where his uncle and father sat.

“Samuel,” Nigel said. “Say hello to your uncle.”

Samuel turned around with a start, a Gatorade bottle at his lips. “Hello, Uncle,” he parroted. “Are you crying?”

Dakota launched into a fresh flurry of tears, sobbing into his hand. Samuel raised his eyebrows at his father and quietly exited the room without so much as acknowledging Winnie.

“Go to your room, Dakota,” Nigel said firmly. “And cry in the fucking shower.”