The blue ice pack in Sophie’s lunchbox was already sweating on the laminate counter. Outside, the grass was dead from three weeks of August heat, and the window air conditioner kept up a dry, rhythmic rattle that did not do much to cool the kitchen.
“Is Uncle Travis really stronger than the police?” Sophie asked.
She tugged the hem of her yellow shirt, her thumb leaving a faint gray smudge on the cotton. She was eleven, and her questions always came in quick, breathless pairs.
“Why does he need a giant tire for his gym if he has weights?”
I zipped the lunchbox and set it by her backpack. My left wrist felt stiff, so I rolled it twice until the joint clicked.
“He uses it for training,” I said.
“Are you going to his grand opening?”
“I have to work, Sophie.”
She looked at the small pile of baby carrots on her plate. Her shoulders were small, curved inward like she was trying to occupy less space in our kitchen.
“He told Daddy you used to just count boxes in a warehouse,” she said.
I wiped a drop of condensation from the counter with my thumb. For eighteen years, my performance reviews had been filed under a triple-key encryption system in a secure facility in northern Virginia.
“They only see what they want to see, Sophie,” I said.
She did not answer, but her fingers kept working at the yellow hem. The silence between us was heavy with the heat coming off the driveway.
“He said he was going to show everyone what you really are,” she whispered.
“He is just talking,” I said.
“He has those black gloves,” she said. “The ones with the hard plastic over the knuckles.”
“Those are just for sparring,” I said.
“I don’t like the way he looks at our house when he drives past,” she said.
She took a carrot and held it between her front teeth without biting down. The school bus was due in four minutes, and its loose muffler was already rattling at the corner of Elm.
“Go on,” I said. “Don’t miss the bus.”
