“Get out.”
His stepfather, Wade, didn’t yell it the first time. That would have made it feel like anger, something hot and temporary. He said it low, like he had rehearsed it in his head for weeks and finally decided to enjoy the moment.
Caleb stood in the narrow kitchen of the rented house outside Pine Hollow, Montana, with a carton of eggs still in his hands. The refrigerator hummed. Rain tapped against the sink window. His mother stood by the stove, frozen with a dish towel in her hand, not meeting his eyes.
“I said get out,” Wade repeated, louder this time. “I’m done feeding a boy who thinks he can mouth off in my house.”
Caleb swallowed hard. “I didn’t mouth off. I said I’m not quitting school to work at the yard.”
Wade took one step forward. He was not a giant of a man, but he filled a room with the force of someone who liked making people smaller. “You don’t decide what happens here.”
Caleb looked at his mother. “Mom?”
