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when I hear my dad come home. Ava must have been waiting for him in the kitchen, because I can hear them talking right away. And it’s not happy words. My insides twist tight, like cooked spaghetti wrapped on a fork. I try not to listen, even put my head under the pillow, but then I can’t breathe.
    â€œWhat were you thinking, Mitchell?” Ava asks him.
    My dad’s voice muffles. I only catch half of what he’s saying. “Going to protect . . .”
    â€œProtect who . . . from what?” Ava cuts him off. She’s totally upset, because she’s all out of breath like she’s about to cry. “From a bunch of kids . . . playing a silly prank? Really, Mitchell?”
    My dad mumbles.
    â€œAnd you were going to use—that gun?”
    A chair scrapes against the floor in the kitchen and I can’t hear my Dad.
    Ava’s voice gets louder. “I don’t care. D-do you know that Jack asked me about it? He’s only eight, Mitchell. Eight.”
    There’s a bang, then, like something got slammed down on the table. My whole body jumps. Holding my breath, I pull the sheets up to my chin.
    â€œWhat sort of example does that set for him?” she lowers her voice.
    â€œThe right kind,” my father shouts back at Ava, and a chair scrapes against the floor.
    It’s dead quiet in the house now. Spooky-silent. I’m hoping they don’t come into my room. If they do, I’ll pretend to be asleep. Some of my friends say that their parents fight all of the time. I guess I’m lucky because Dad and Ava don’t do it much.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about soccer. About tomorrow’s game. Maybe I’ll score a goal. And the team will cheer for me. And that will make my dad happy.
    If he’d just say he’s sorry, Ava would be happy too. My dad’s wrong this time. Even I know that. But he doesn’t apologize. And I don’t think that he ever will.

CHAPTER 8
    JACK
    FRIDAY, MARCH 26
    The whistle shrieks. Time out. I float back to Earth and the soccer game. The team huddles up. We’re ahead 4–0, so everyone’s relaxed and a bit cocky. Coach urges us to keep our heads in the game. We clap once, yell, “Team!” and get back in position. I glance at the bleachers. Dad’s there, proud smile, his arm around Ava, Sam in her lap.
    Focus. I crouch down and shield my eyes from the sun’s glare. My gloves rasp against my knees. A bee buzzes in circles around the goal posts. A cheer erupts from the other side. A player in red breaks away from the pack. His legs pump as he rushes toward me. The ball is a blur as he dances around defenders and breaks downfield.
    Adrenaline courses through my arms, and I tighten every muscle to spring. I coil and ready myself to move, a trigger. We size each other up. He darts to the right; I match his movement. He cuts left, then back. I mirror him, hands outstretched.
    A breeze gusts across the field, catches the ragged edges of the bandage on my chin. My face throbs and I hesitate. The ball stops under the kid’s foot. He rears back and kicks with force. I glue my eyes to the ball’s trajectory and leap to block the kick. Too late. My fingertips brush the leather. It falls behind me as I crash to the ground. The whistle blows.
    I eat dirt. The game is now 4–1.
    My teammates gather around. Mo offers a hand and pulls me to my feet. “S’all right, man. Tough break.” Someone else slaps me on the butt. Another punches my shoulder.
    I shake it off, brush blades of grass from my uniform, and wait. The clock ticks down another ten seconds. Halftime. We jog off the field. Before I can grab a Gatorade and collapse on the bench, Dad corners me. He towers over me and the other players like a giant on the field. He’s still wearing his navy suit from work. His shoes gleam so much I can almost see my face in the shiny reflection.
    â€œJack, what was that?” he