the gaunt, disheveled man said, smashing his McDonald’s shake down on the table. Pink liquid exploded everywhere. Jesse froze as a thick droplet oozed from the table edge onto his sneakers. Swallowing hard, he felt dread clamp around his chest. He knew his father was only seconds away from what his mother called a “hellava bad scene.” Jesse’s eyes darted around the room. No one was nearby, though a woman with a baby stroller and another family with two boys, a year or two older than him, sat on the far side of the restaurant. On the one hand, he was glad they were far enough to avoid witnessing what was about to happen but on the other, he clamped his fists; he was left being his father’s only target. His memory wasn’t very good and yet, he vaguely remembered his father getting meaner with each passing day. Try as he might, Jesse could not understand what triggered these outbursts. When he asked his mother, she would simply say, “Be glad you’re still a little boy.”
