PART 1 — THE TOOLBOX

The sauce on the stove was thick and dark red, bubbling slowly in the center of the copper pot.

Daniel stirred it with a long wooden spoon.

Heavy circles.

Slow.

Deliberate.

My sixteen-year-old son, Noah, stood beside the sink drying one of our blue ceramic plates with a yellow dish towel.

He kept his shoulder turned slightly away from his stepfather.

“We need three plates, Noah,” I said.

Daniel did not turn from the stove.

“Just two.”

I stopped with my hand inside the cupboard.

“You’re not eating?”

He tapped his right thumb against his temple twice.

A habit he had developed whenever he was calculating something.

Money.

Measurements.

Bills.

Problems.