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medical textbook in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was rocking forward and back in his seat. His eyes never looked up from the page. He was sixteen years old, but at moments like this, seemed more like twelve. Except that he’d inherited the same genes from Dad that I had … he was already over six feet tall and would probably gain another four inches before he stopped growing.
    I looked at my dad, a question on my face. He shrugged. “I know you had your big show in Washington yesterday, we told him. But … you know.”
    Yeah, I knew. Sean didn’t deal well with change, and Saturday evening dinner was every week. I sighed. I didn’t often miss it, but when I did, it put Sean off-balance. I opened the fridge and searched around until I found a beer, then cracked it open, took a deep pull, and sat down next to Sean.
    “Make yourself at home, Dougal,” my dad said, his voice sarcastic.
    “Thanks, Dad. You know I go by Crank now.”
    “Yeah, I know. But I’m not going to start calling you that. Your mother and I gave you a good Irish name.”
    I sighed. “How’s it going, Sean?”
    Sean spoke, in a landslide. “Can I tell you something? Did you know the arm has two complete separate compartments for muscles? It’s divided by the fascial layer, which merges with the humerus. But it’s the same nerve that controls both sets of muscles.” He began to recite the names of the muscles.
    “No, man, I didn’t know that. That’s pretty cool.”
    He started talking about how the muscles connected to the bone structures, and I looked up at my father. Dad had stopped whatever it was he was doing and was standing watching us, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes rested on Sean, and they looked sad.
    Moments like this, my dad and I got along. We didn’t agree on anything else, at all. But both of us would do anything in the world to protect Sean.
    “Sean,” my dad said, “I’m gonna put dinner on the table. Can you put your book away now?”
    Sean slipped the book off the table, carefully setting it under his seat.
    “Let me help,” I said, starting to get up.
    “Nothing to help with,” he said. “How did your show go?” He started setting plates on the table.
    I shrugged. “It was good. Crazy large crowd … hundred thousand at least. But it was mostly just the college kids who got the music.”
    He grimaced. “Speaking of college …”
    “I know, Dad. Can we have that conversation later? Much later?” I nodded my head toward Sean. Neither of us wanted to fight in front of him.
    “Yeah. But don’t think it’s over. I know you have your band and all, but I want to see you do something with your life.”
    Sean interrupted. “Your show wasn’t on the news. I watched CNN, and all they talked about was a sniper. Killing people. Did you know some rifles can shoot more than a mile? It’s because of the high velocity of the bullet.”
    I shook my head, more than a little disturbed by the direction of the conversation. “I didn’t know that.”
    “That’s all they’ve been talking about on the news for days,” Dad said. “Some crazy bastard going around shooting people in Washington.”
    “The most popular sniper rifles use seven point six two ammunition,” Sean said. “But the longest range confirmed kill was Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock during the Vietnam War, using a M2 Browning fifty caliber machine gun instead of a sniper rifle.”
    I sighed, staring at Sean. He’d always grabbed onto topics and learned … a lot of obscure facts. But this—it was disturbing.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” Dad whispered, “but it’s unavoidable in the news right now.”
    I shrugged. “This will pass.”
    He grunted and sat down at the table. “Eat!” he shouted. “You’re too frickin’ thin, Dougal. And you drink like a fish. What woman is ever going to want to stay with you if you’re like this?”
    Normally a comment like that, I’d have been pissed. But I