Jeepers started climbing up Ben’s arm. Abby suppressed an involuntary shudder. She’d been sharing her house with this creature from hell for over six months, and she still wasn’t used to it.

“She can’t squash him, Mommy, you need to tell her.”

“I’ll talk to her, but I want you to keep Jeepers off—”

“Oh, and Dad said you should call him because he wants to take me on my birthday to the Museum of Natural History. He said I could bring three friends.”

“He what?” She clenched her fist. “Ben, we’re having a birthday party for you and Tommy together, remember?”

“Yeah, but maybe we’ll do that next year? Because Dad said—”

She took out her phone. “I’ll talk to your dad right now. Hon, take Jeepers to your room, okay?” Abby could face only one vile creature at a time.

Ben and his eight-legged horror retreated to their lair, and Abby dialed Steve.

“Abby,” he answered almost instantly. The way her ex-husband said her name when she called him was unique. He started with a very quick “A,” and as if to compensate, the “bby” stretched forever. So it was actually “Abbyyyyyyy.” His intonation always sounded like the godfather welcoming a beloved son who had just made an unfortunate mistake. Adoring, patronizing, and sorrowful. It never failed to enrage her to the point of homicidal urges.

“Steve,” she said, trying to summon her calm, soft voice. “I talked to Ben, and he said you want to take him to the—”

“The Museum of Natural History with some friends. I thought it’s a great way to celebrate his birthday. You know, because he likes insects so much.”

The way he belittled their son’s hobby spiked her rage even further—if that was possible. “The thing is, we already agreed that on his birthday we’re celebrating with Tommy. They’re inviting the entire class and—”

“I never agreed to that.”

“I mean, I agreed with Ben and Tommy’s parents.” She recognized her misstep a second too late.

“Tommy’s parents agreed, did they?” Steve’s voice wasn’t even fake warm anymore. “It’s nice that Tommy’s parents were consulted. When were you going to tell me about my son’s birthday? At some point down the line from Tommy’s parents, I suppose?”

“I was about to tell you today,” she lied airily. “In any case the museum visit—”

“I think it would be nicer if Ben will be the focus of the party, don’t you?” Steve interrupted her. “He shouldn’t need to share it with another kid.”

“He doesn’t need to . . . he wanted the joint party . . . we discussed this . . .”

This conversation was a recurring moment of irony in her life. As a negotiator, Abby could face deranged criminals armed to the teeth, holding numerous hostages, while her voice remained measured, each word de-escalating the situation. But when she talked to the guy she was married to for twelve years, her voice automatically adopted the style of nails dragged on a blackboard, and she couldn’t think of a single word to utter aside from expletives.

“You can come along; this isn’t about pushing you away,” Steve said helpfully.

With her right ear exposed to her ex’s infuriating voice and her left ear being subjected to the torturous sound of Samantha’s violin practice, Abby went through an internal meltdown. She had to end this conversation before she said something she’d regret. “Tell you what,” she said, summoning her calm, slow voice from years of training. “I’ll think it over, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

When in doubt, always buy time.

“Sure,” Steve said. “Tell the kids I said good—”

She hung up, her fingers tightening on the phone. Before Ben had taken an all-consuming interest in invertebrates and Squamata, he’d been obsessed with superheroes. He’d had superhero toys, posters, clothes, and bedsheets. To Abby they all seemed boring and interchangeable, except for She-Hulk. Now that was a superhero she could identify with. These phone calls always left her with the urge to morph into a seven-foot green giant and growl, “Abby Smash.”

Instead she put the phone down and followed the sound of music to the closed door. She knocked on it, and the violin stopped, leaving just the electronic background music.

“Yeah?” Samantha said, her voice muffled.

Abby opened the door and stepped into her fourteen-year-old daughter’s room. Samantha sat on a chair with her violin still in the crook of her neck. Her smooth copper-brown hair was tied in a haphazard, typical ponytail.

“Hey, Mom,” she said, the words barely audible above the music. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Abby let her stare slide over the room’s disarray—clothes on the floor, stacks of music sheets everywhere, Samantha’s schoolbooks scattered on the desk. Keebles, Samantha’s dog, sat on the bed, eyeing Abby with disapproval. She was a white Pomeranian spitz that Samantha had gotten for her tenth birthday from her grandmother. Recently, Samantha had colored Keebles’s tail pink and purple, which made her look like a tiny dog-unicorn breed. The white furry creature, who adored Samantha unconditionally, viewed the rest of the world as a disturbance. Sometimes, it was like Abby had two teenagers in the house.