I set the water bottle on the picnic table. It made a sharp, definitive clack.

“Leo,” I said. My voice was flat. Devoid of anger. Devoid of warmth. It was the voice that had commanded squads through the blood-soaked dust of Helmand Province.

Leo managed to turn his head. “Mom?”

“Tap out,” I said softly. “Let him go.”

Leo slapped his hand weakly against the mat. Greg sneered, releasing the pressure but giving the boy an extra, degrading shove into the dirt before standing and beating his chest like a victorious silverback.

I walked to Mia and knelt to inspect her knee. Superficial. I wiped her tears with my thumb. “Go stand by the house, baby. Do not look away.”