LAYLA:
“We never got to talk about what happened yesterday,” I say as I put a piece of the home-cooked fries into my mouth. Caleb was taking off his boot in the small space we use as the living room when I say that to him.
“Because I was dog-tired,” is his response as he starts to make his way over to the dining area. He reaches for the fries inside the plate but before he could touch any of them, I hit his hand a bit harder than I expected to.
“Wash your hands first,” I instruct him and he gives me the stinky eyes. He adheres to my instruction, though, as he goes into the kitchen. When I hear the water running, it made it apparent what he was doing. Then he comes out sprinkling water from his hands to the floor.
“So what happened yesterday?” he asks, reaching for the fries again with
