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“It’s not every day. He does it more when his friends are there.”

“What does he say?”

Her mouth tightens.

I want his parents, his teacher, a phone number that rings in somebody’s kitchen tonight. I don’t ask for any of it.

Tova keeps her eyes on the television. “I don’t want Mamma to go back to school.”

Astrid’s hand settles flat beside the keyboard.

“She knows?”

“Yes. She asked if I wanted her to do something, and I said no.”

“Okay.”

Tova turns toward me.

“I don’t want you to either.”

“Okay.”

“You said that fast.”

“You were pretty clear.”

She studies me, probably waiting for whatever adults normally attach to okay, and I give her nothing.

She says, “I want to know how you know.”

“Before somebody starts something?”

“Yes. I want to know before.”

“That’s harder off the ice.”

“Why?”

“On the ice everybody has a job. I know what position a guy plays, where he’s supposed to be, where the puck is supposed to go. I’m already working with half the answer.”

“People at school want stuff too.”

That one comes fast.

“Yeah. They do.”

“So what do you look at?”

I lean back into the sofa.

“Eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because people check things before they commit.”

“What things?”