The ride home felt like a prison bus. Not that our old Subaru wasn’t comfortable. It’s just that dad, with his good arm, wrenched the wheel around every corner, sending me and Kaylee tumbling around the backseat. He didn’t even turn on the radio. He wanted the silence to gnaw at us like his bite wound, prodding our nerves with the occasional glare in the rearview mirror. I tried to preoccupy myself with the seatbelt I wasn’t wearing or the ashtray in the armrest, clinking it open and shut and open and shut.

“Kevin!”

Life was better when we lived on the coast. Maybe the salty air contained hidden calming agents, like lavender or chamomile or Lorazepam. Maybe life in the Northern Midwest had no room for that kind of easiness, with its pinecones, lakeside cabins and hunting seasons. Or maybe one year up here wasn’t enough to sort out the tension.

When we arrived back home, my father threw his door shut and trudged towards the front door without a look back to either of us. “Clean up the mess.”

I looked at my sister. “Kaylee, too?”

The screen door creaked as he pulled it open, the rusty springs grating in my ears. Then bang. It slammed shut as he let it go and vanished into the depths of the house.

“You heard him,” I said, removing the shin pads from my legs.

“I didn’t hear nothing.”

“We got to pick up the trash.”

“Awwww,” Kaylee answered, slumping her shoulders and losing her chin between the folds of her orange life jacket.

I unhitched the clasps and pulled it over her matted blonde hair. “No crying now. It’s getting late.”

“What if the raccoon comes back?”

“It won’t.”

I retrieved the broom and dustpan from the garage wall, handing the blue-handled scoop to Kaylee.

“It’s not going to eat me?”

“Not tonight.”

“Awwww.”