Dad left the room, a door shut.
"Libbey?"
"Boys! Where's Nick?"
"Under the couch, last I saw."
Looking through the legs of the coffee table to see the TV, Nick hoped to see Oprah. A court show was on now. The people kept talking over each other. Nick could make no sense of their conversation. He was glad objects weren't as rude as people. Except dimes, those condescending bigots.
A broken, mute, potato chip was the only object under here, Nick had to get back to the purse. He scooted just past the edge of the couch.
The phone rang.
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