Watching your five-year-old son eat tomato soup while the world debated whether he was divine or demonic created a surreal cognitive dissonance that Liam hadn't known was possible.
The kitchen had been transformed into something resembling a television studio crossed with a family gathering. Cameras positioned at strategic angles captured every angle of domesticity while Kova worked his way through Luanne's grilled cheese with the focused intensity of a child who'd worked up an appetite healing bullet wounds.
"Careful with the soup, little bridge," Luanne fussed, adjusting his napkin with grandmother precision. Liam's mother moved around the cameras like they were furniture, her decades of pack hospitality extending naturally to include uninvited documentation of lunch. "It's still hot."
