He’d not only done all those things; he’d thrown that entire life away. But even at his lowest, he’d never anticipated wanting to start a worm farm. Ever. Even remotely.

“Hey, Dad. Isn’t this great? Isn’t this the best thing ever? Where are the worms? Can I see the worms?”

“Not yet, Teddy. We need to get them out of the sun, into the basement. You can help me set every thing up.”

“How soon do you think we’ll have worm poop, Dad? You think soon?”

Mike knew well that when his four-year-old said soon, he was hoping the event would happen within the next three seconds. “The plan is to get all the supplies into the basement. Then to come upstairs, wash our hands, chill out with a glass of orange juice. And after that, the two of us can get our hands down and dirty creating our worm farm.”

“Hey, Dad.” Teddy, whose thatch of brown hair never looked brushed, who could put a hole in a new pair of jeans faster than lightning, who had a Tough Guy T-shirt with four separate food stains on it, looked up at him with adoration. “Worms are my favorite thing in the whole world. This is the best thing that happened to me in my whole life. I’m not kidding. I mean it. I’m not telling a story this time. It’s true, Dad.”

“I believe you, sport. In fact, that’s exactly why we’re doing this.”

“And we’re gonna make a pond. And have frogs and stuff.”

“You bet.”

“Mom would never let me do this.”

Mike yanked the T-shirt over his head, tossed it on the truck seat.

Chicago springs were usually perfect, but this May had been a furnace. All afternoon, it’d been hot enough to choke. Sweat prickled the back of his neck. And no, he didn’t respond to Teddy’s comment about his mother. He was getting good-not perfect, but good-at refraining from criticizing Nancy in front of their son. He’d sworn never to make Teddy prey to those kinds of divorce battles.