It was the middle of the night and the voice I heard was that of a child. I sat up. Tad was not in bed. It was dark, but the voice, soft and pleading, was coming from the living room. Stunted phrases reached me, not entire sentences. I made out certain words that were emphasized with an increase in volume.
“Why…Not enough…What for?”
It was Tad on his cell phone. I crept into the living room. He was hunched on the sofa, his head bent deeply, his arms drooping as if they would scrape the floor. There was a murmuring, then suddenly.
“Stop!” he said.
I gasped and he turned, saw me, and snapped the phone shut. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, he materialized like a photograph born in a bath of developing fluid. All angles and curled musculature, he stood up and pointed to the bedroom.
“Get
