Francine was at it again. She had him bailed up in the kitchen, he could feel the heat of the stove at his back and the press of the oven door handle in his spine. He knew it was his fault, he’d knocked over the glass of juice in his excitement to get to the meal. His mother didn’t cook very often and the roast beef had smelled so good his stomach had rumbled loudly. Francine had been different lately like she was actually trying to be a mother, and the instances of rages and hitting had slowed. Then he had to go and ruin it all by knocking over...