“Anyone who didn’t like you would have to be really, really lame. And your mom loves you.” Mike bent down, bussed his son’s forehead. They weren’t calling it a good-night kiss anymore. They were calling it a Night Connect.

“You’re going to leave the bathroom light on?”

“Hey, it stays on 24/7. You know that.”

Mike finally switched off the bedroom light and aimed for the living room. Teddy had barely said a word until he was three. Ever since then, he made up for it by talking every waking moment. Mike vaguely remembered working fourteen-hour days, poring over law books and briefs, skipping meals and sleep, never too tired to party.

To caretake a four-year-old all day-now that was tiring.

He grabbed a longneck from the fridge, the news paper from the counter, sank into the easy chair by the window and propped up a foot.

He’d made the place as easy to care for as he could. Nothing in the living area but the big stone fireplace, a couch, a chair, the big TV. The open kitchen area had an eating nook, where you could see the TV whether you were eating or cooking. Mike had dibs on the west corner for his desk and computer and work setup. Teddy had dibs on the north corner, where he stashed his downstairs toys. Four-year-olds, Mike discovered, never seemed to have enough toys.

The silence now was more valued than gold. He didn’t even get the paper opened before Slugger and Cat climbed up-Cat by his neck, Slugger taking up all available space on his lap. They promptly went into snooze mode.

The last of daylight blurred into sunset, and then true darkness came on. He never turned on a light. A full moon was just rising. He leaned his head back, taking a lazy moon bath in the open window. He scratched under Cat’s chin, hearing him purr like thunder, and used the other hand to rub Slugger’s belly, who loved that attention to the point of bliss.