Sam and Leo bury their noses in bowls of pasta.

Patrick goes red. “Steven, one more word like that and you can leave the table.”

“You need to get with the program, Dad,” Steven says. He takes another bite—a shovelful, really—and leans forward on his elbows. One finger pokes the air. “See, this is why we need the new rules. So everything can run like it’s supposed to.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m staring at him as if he’s from outer space. “Take me and Julia—”

“Julia and me,” I say.

“Whatevs. Me and Julia have it planned out. When we get married and have kids, she’ll take care of that house stuff while I’m at work. She loves it. I’ll make the decisions, and Julia will go along. Easy-peasy.”

I put my fork down, and it clangs against the rim of the plate. “You’re too young to get married. Patrick, talk to him.”

“What your mother said,” Patrick says. “Way too young.”

“We’ve talked about it.”

“You’ve talked about it,” I say, still not eating. “How exactly do you do that on Julia’s one hundred words a day? I’m curious.”

Steven sits back, done with his second bowl. “I haven’t talked about it with Julia,” he drawls. “I’ve talked about it with Evan.”

My blood is beginning to boil. “Does Julia get a say?”

There’s no response from my son, only a bewildered look, as if I’ve suddenly begun speaking in tongues. We stare at each other across the table like strangers until Patrick interrupts.

“Let it go, Jean. No sense in fighting about it. He’s too young, anyway.” Then he looks over at Steven. “Way too young.”

“Wrong again, Dad. A guy from the Department of Health and Welfare came to our school today. Major assembly. He talked about how next year they’re rolling out a new program. Get this: ten thousand bucks, full college tuition, and a guaranteed government job for anyone who’s married by eighteen. Boys, of course. And another ten thousand for each kid you have. Pretty sweet, huh?”

Sweet as snake venom, I think. “You’re not getting married at eighteen, kiddo.”

A smile works its way onto Steven’s face, only a touch of a smile that isn’t joined by his eyes. It’s really not a smile at all. “You don’t have anything to do with it, Mom. It’s Dad’s decision.”

Maybe this is how it happened in Germany with the Nazis, in Bosnia with the Serbs, in Rwanda with the Hutus. I’ve often wondered about that, about how kids can turn into monsters, how they learn that killing is right and oppression is just, how in one single generation the world can change on its axis into a place that’s unrecognizable.