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kinds of fireworks they could buy to commemorate a holiday which for them had very little to do with American independence and everything to do with blowing things up.
    â€œLet me see that,” Sam said to Hunter now, noticing for the first time that his son was holding a notepad. Hunter handed it over and Sam studied the page it was open to, marveling at the unaccustomed neatness of his son’s handwriting. Hunter had made two columns. The one on the right listed the names and desired quantities of each firework, and the one on the left listed their prices. At the bottom of the left-hand column was the sum total Hunter and Tim were proposing to spend on this venture.
    â€œDoes your math tutor know you can add this well?” Sam asked, looking up from the notepad.
    Hunter smiled his familiar half smile.
    â€œIs this all the money you two have saved?” Sam indicated the total in the bottom left corner.
    Hunter nodded.
    â€œHow many weeks’ allowance is that?”
    Hunter considered this. “About six,” he said, finally.
    â€œAnd you’re sure this is how you want to spend it?”
    Hunter nodded again. He wasn’t much of a talker, this kid. Now Sam blew out a long breath, dropped the notepad on the table, and tipped his chair back. Hunter waited, and tried not to scratch his mosquito bite. He and his brother, Tim, were identical twins, but for the quarter sized birthmark on Hunter’s neck. It had been years since Sam had needed it to tell his sons apart, but he knew that it had been a lifeline to all of the teachers, and coaches, and Scout leaders in his sons’ lives. Otherwise, the two boys shared the same reddish-brown hair, the same bright blue eyes, and the same dusting of freckles across their cheeks and the bridges of their noses. Sam reached out now and tried to smooth down Hunter’s hair, but it couldn’t be done. It was a minefield of cowlicks. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get him and his brother a haircut before they saw their mother next weekend, Sam thought, and while he was at it, he might as well get them some new pajamas, too. The faded Minnesota Twins T-shirt and the tattered gym shorts that served as Hunter’s sleepwear tonight barely covered his gangly arms and legs.
    He gave his son’s head a final rub and looked back down at the notepad. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a firework Hunter had listed as “killer bee fountain.”
    â€œOh. That looks like a huge swarm of killer bees,” Hunter said, pantomiming a swarm. “Plus, it has one of the loudest whistles of any fountain firework.”
    Sam smiled. Hunter had just said more to him than he ordinarily said to his father in a whole week. “Well, we wouldn’t want to miss out on that one,” Sam said. “But remember, I’m going to have to run all of this by your mom, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” Hunter said.
    â€œNow, get to bed.” And then Sam added, in a slightly louder voice, “ Both of you.”
    â€œâ€™Night Dad,” Tim called down, from where Sam knew he’d been waiting, just out of sight, at the top of the stairs.
    â€œâ€™Night Tim,” Sam called up. “And Hunter?” he said, before his other son could slink away.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œIt’s going to be a miracle if you and your brother reach adulthood with all ten of your fingers intact.”
    â€œProbably,” Hunter agreed.
    â€œNow, get out of here,” Sam said, good-naturedly, easing his laptop open again.
    He clicked on play and then rubbed his eyes. He rested his elbows on the table, and leaned closer, squinting at the screen as the video began.
    â€œDad?”
    He jumped. “Christ,” he mumbled, slamming his computer shut. “Cassie, you have got to stop sneaking up on me like that,” he said, turning to his six-year-old daughter, who was standing beside him.
    â€œI’m sorry. I can’t help