“Not my business!” he laughed, as though Simon were a child refusing to admit he spilled the milk. “Look at this boy!” he called over his shoulder. “I -” he stomped a hard part of Simon’s backpack, like a man scuffing out the embers of a fire, “made” stomp “you.”

Oh, the things he made him do, his little ant scurrying for morsels. There was pride in his voice. Victory.