Emily’s dad yells and pounds on things. Her mom calls him “Vietnam vet.” When he’s away on business, she takes down his sword collection and hangs paintings of flowers.
Once, he yells, “Make me a sandwich, girls!”
We make it from moist cat food, put a plastic army man on top to show it’s a joke, think he’ll understand—but he doesn’t. Sandwich half gone, we’re too scared to say anything, so we just watch.
After that we know, between us, he’s nothing but a red-faced-fist-pounding man who’d eaten cat food.
And we were the ones who fed it to him.