Gela mutters, under her breath, "He's not the first father to," disagree with her, that is, and then she cups her hand over her mouth like she didn't mean to say it. She waits for a moment, just in case there's more there that might slip out. It seems okay.

"I think a lot of it was." It seems important, to say this. "For one thing, plates crack and shatter. Cups too, or window panes.

But you're a person, Clarisse. We are more complicated than that."