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squeezed Nate in as early as they could. Insurance covered the full cost of the repair, but the blood on the upholstery would have to get taken care of elsewhere. The shop only had guys on hand to repair the window.
                  Nate ran some errands in the rental car, picking up Luke's communion suit from the dry cleaner and stocking back up on some whiskey after he found none in the liquor cabinet. On his way home, he saw a man grilling whole chickens outside of an insurance agency.
                  Shana was in the front yard playing with a stray cat. It was grey, patchy, emaciated––proof of the fact that no one in the neighborhood had decided to lay it a milk bowl or some table scraps. This was a more bizarre happening than the guy grilling whole chickens on a sidewalk. Truth was, Nate declared, she seemed fucked up ever since he showed her the broken car window. God knows why.
                  The cat chased after a squirrel which had some fur stripped from its tail, baring a long cord of white, connected vertebrae, no wider than a child’s thumb. With the cat gone, Shana felt Nate's gaze. With their eyes in contact, Shana reached into her purse, producing a mass of tin foil. She unwrapped it and munched on the sandwich. Her body was arranged like a mermaid's, beached onshore. Her jaw chewed mechanically, her eyes remained still, staring into Nate.
    “What you got there?”
    “Eggs and cheese.”
    A curt nod indicated Nate’s full attention. “Where from?”
    The full mouth emptied backwards down her gullet. “Jim’s? Is that the one next to the Little Cesar’s?”
    “That would be Tim’s Meat.”
    “Tim’s Meat.”
    “Yes.”
    The eye contact broke for the first time, Shana gazed at the sandwich.
    “First time you got a sandwich there? They keep the egg runny.”
    “Yeah, it’s good.”
    “Yeah.”
                  An idle task would have made this conversation a lot easier to bear, like retrieving Luke’s tiny suit from the hook over the back seat, or examining the window work done by the boys in the shop. Nate did not realize this. Instead he went inside, leaving the suit behind and the window uninspected.
                  There was an energy in the house, the energy which typically preceded weddings and formal business gatherings. It constricted Nate’s lungs and rang in his ears at a high pitch. Ambient stress secreted from Suze’s pattering feet, rushing from this to that room; secreted from her hands scavenging for this or that drawer; vibrating from her mouth at low frequencies as fragments of obscenities.
    On the far end of the living room, Luke sat in one of the living room’s stiffer chairs. His shirt was buttoned to the throat. One half of his hair was parted, the other half unbrushed. Nate nodded at the boy and the boy maintained a stiff face. “What’s next, she’s gonna pick my boogers?”
    “I heard that,” belted Suze from a couple rooms over. “This is for a holy ritual!”
    “But it's tomorrow! Why can't you take my picture tomorrow?”
    “Just cooperate, you little punk.”
    Nate, as he tended to do, chuckled.
                  Luke’s cheeks were weighed down with fishing weights. Consternation bent in his narrow brow. “I’ll never be a punk, Mom,” resolved under his breath. Suze rushed in with a spray bottle and Luke winced on sight, like a dog in training.
    “Oh it’s just a little water. You’re full of the stuff.” Percussive triggers doused Luke’s scalp. The comb Suze just retrieved was no better than the one before it, and it tugged at the boy’s hair just as hard.
    “I’m not full of water. I’m full of organs and bones, and those are full of juice.”
    “Tomorrow is no t you r day. It i s ou r day. And I swear to the man upstairs that if you–” Suze’s thought halted as Nate drew her attention towards the front door. Some subliminal gesture directed Suze’s gaze to her