They’ll be angry.”

“We aren’t afraid of them,” Henry said.

I leaned forward, held my hand over the plastic trackpad, and clicked the cursor right on the word Accept while my four sons stood beside the table.

By six thirty the next morning, the basement smelled of damp concrete, old cardboard, and winter humidity.

Henry dragged a heavy steel file box across the floor, his rubber-soled sneakers squeaking on the gray painted floor.

“The top drawer is stuck, Mom,” he said.