Abbey came along three years later. Dad talked my mom into naming her after one of his favorite writers, some weird old bird who's buried out west in the middle of a desert.

Most of my friends aren't crazy about their sisters, but Abbey's all right. Maybe it's not cool to say so, but the truth is the truth. She's funny and tough and not nearly as irritating as most of the girls at school. Over the years Abbey and I developed a pretty good system: She keeps an eye on Mom, and I keep an eye on Dad. Sometimes, though, I need extra help.

“So, what's the deal?” Abbey asked after I got back from the jail.

We were sitting at the kitchen table. For lunch Mom had fixed us the usual, ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

“He says he got carried away again,” I said.

Abbey raised her eyebrows and snorted. “No duh.”

Mom set two glasses of milk on the table. “Noah, why does he insist on staying in jail? It's Father's Day, for heaven's sake.”

“I guess he's trying to make a point.”

“All he's making,” my sister said, “is a jackass of himself.”

“Hush, Abbey,” Mom told her.

“He said it's okay to call the lawyer,” I added.

“He's not pleading guilty?” Abbey asked. “How can he not plead guilty? He did it, didn't he?”

“It's still smart to have an attorney,” said my mother. She seemed much calmer now. When the police first called, she'd gotten real mad and said some pretty harsh things about Dad. Honestly, I couldn't blame her. Even for him this was a major screwup.

“Noah, how are you doing?” she asked.

I knew she was worried that the jailhouse visit had shaken me up, so I told her I was fine.