I watched the four of them in the mirror: fingers sweeping from forehead to crown, a small shake of the head, then the left hand settling on the back of the neck.

I had done that my whole life.

Every time the pressure climbed.

My father used to laugh and say it was how you could tell a Farrington man was nervous.

One of the boys caught me staring in the glass and tipped his head.

“Mister, why are you copying us?”

“I’m not copying you,” I said.

My voice didn’t come out right.

All five of us were facing the mirror now.

The same gray-blue eyes.

The same jaw.

The same faint dent in the left cheek.

“I’ve always done that,” I said, mostly to myself.

They grinned at the same time, gap-toothed and identical.