My eleven year old son tumbles into the Subaru, slams the door, and blurts out,

"You know what drives my enemies crazy?" His white face is pink from playing.

I don't answer him.

My son’s ten year old body is like a train car, shunting, never hooking. Right now, he is slamming into the wall opposite my headboard, shaking a piece of it loose above my head. It is the middle of the night.