“So let me get this straight,” Tonya said after she’d picked us up and we had installed ourselves at a booth in Burger King. “Jackson’s parents are rich, and you’ve got a problem with that? And you’re worrying about this when you’ve got a DHS visit tomorrow? Can you spell moron?”
“His mother is so mean,” I said in my defense.
“She can’t be that bad.”
“She could be the bride of the Antichrist.”
“Oh, please,” Tonya said dismissively. “The rich are different. Just ask Mitt Romney—she can’t be worse than that pasty white nightmare. And you’ve got more important things to worry about.”
“The DHS isn’t going to do anything,” I said dismissively.
“They can make your life hell, Wiley,” she said in a low voice. “They sit there writing s**t down on their forms and looking at you and judging you
