My Son Started Packing My Barbecue Into Takeout Boxes

and land on somebody else.

It didn’t.

Ashley gave a little laugh. Thin. Sharp.

“Oh, Carol, we’re just helping with leftovers.”

I kept my eyes on my son.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

That landed.

You could hear the smoker ticking in the heat. A bird somewhere out by the fence. Ice slipping against glass when Hannah set down the pitcher too hard.

Michael finally continue reading …