She put the green plastic pitcher down on the patio step so hard that water slopped over the concrete edge and onto her sneakers.

“Don’t look over there, Emily,” I said gently, putting myself squarely between her line of sight and the boundary fence.

“He was telling the other kids stuff on the bus, Dad,” she whispered, her voice catching as she pulled at her ponytail.

“He told everybody you lost the house.”

Trent yanked his four-ounce blue leather MMA gloves out of his jacket pocket and smacked them together twice, making a sharp leather crack that bounced off our back siding.

“You can’t even park in your own driveway, old man!” Trent yelled toward his father’s house, laughing again.