Her shoulders shook beneath some invisible weight, and she turned her back to the doorway.

“Take him his dinner right now, Cassie, because this conversation is over for good,” she ordered.

I went down the creaky wooden steps and stomped across the patchy lawn toward the back of the yard.

Lucas sat on an upside-down milk crate by the cedar fence, blowing warm breath into his cracked palms.

“Did your mom make her famous chicken soup today?” he asked with a soft, hopeful smile.

“Yeah, it’s the chicken soup with dumplings,” I answered in a flat, frosty voice.