One sock. Just one. Sam pads across the kitchen tile and climbs the big chair. It creaks. "Creak. Creak." His sock drags a thin white smear on the grout.
Sam looks up from the chair. "My ma'am was mad," he says. "She said call your dad." The chair creaks again under his socked foot.
Dad sets his mug down. "Did you do something very bad?" The kitchen goes still. Sam swallows and reaches behind his back.
He holds up the notepad. A wobbly red sun. A blue cat with six legs. "I made drawings on her notepad," he says, and his voice drops.
"That is too bad," Dad says. Sam tucks the notepad under his arm. His lower lip pushes out. The chair stops creaking.
Just the hum of the fridge. Just the tick of the clock. Sam sits very still on the big chair. One white sock dangles off the rung.
Morning light slides across the tile in a long pale stripe. The table holds two empty bowls. The fridge stands quiet, one round magnet on its white door.
Sam stares at his boots. He does not move. Dad slides a white sheet and a crayon box across the table. "Squeak." The wax bites the page.
No more talking. Just scratch-scratch-scratch. The crayon smears thick blue lines. Two grins take shape. One tall. One short. Both wide.
Sam pushes the paper to Dad. Dad presses a round magnet to the fridge. The two grins stick. They drink their milk. "Gulp. Gulp."