He looked over Noah’s head at Michael.

Michael tugged at his watch strap.

The red ledger of custody dates lay on the counter by the fruit bowl, shut and silent.

“Were you riding your yellow bike when it happened?” Derek asked in his low, gravelly voice.

“The one with the new scrape on the front?”

Noah stared at the little puddle of syrup on his plate.

He didn’t look at Derek.

“Travis was yelling,” Noah said.