Dark blue ones in the living room, uneven on the left because someone did not measure. A soft throw covers the taped rip in the couch. A small stack of children’s books sits on the coffee table beside Derby’s motorcycle magazines. Blue Rex isstaged dramatically on top of a pillow fort that has swallowed half the living room floor. A grocery bag full of cereal boxes sits in the kitchen. Two juice boxes are lined up on the counter. Dinosaur sheets are folded on the recliner. A night-light shaped like a moon is plugged into the hallway outlet.
Derby stands behind me and goes still.
“This ain’t my house,” he says.
Sophie folds her arms. “It’s now improved.”
“There’s a moon glowing in my hallway.”
“For August.”
“There are curtains.”
“You were warned.”
“My couch has a blanket.”
“Your couch had a wound.”
“It had character.”
“It had tape.”
“Same thing.”
August pulls me toward the fort. “Look. This is the cave. Blue Rex guards it. Oaks said the roof would collapse, but it didn’t.”
Derby crouches, inspecting the blankets draped from the coffee table to two chairs. “Oaks was right. This is structurally unsound.”
August’s face falls.
I open my mouth, but Derby keeps going.
“See, your load-bearing pillow is soft. Amateur mistake. You need couch cushions on the sides and the blanket tucked under the table leg. Otherwise, one sneeze and your whole cave caves in.”
August stares at him, fascinated.
“You know forts?”
“I know bad construction when I see it.”
“Can you fix it?”
Derby glances at me.
I try not to smile.
He scowls. “Maybe.”
August points at him. “Maybe means probably no unless grown-ups feel bad.”
Derby sighs. “Your mama needs to stop teaching you emotional blackmail.”
“I didn’t,” I say.
“He came with it?”
“Apparently.”