The night was humid, the kind of heavy air that made everything feel sticky. Peter sat on the couch, his knees tucked up to his chest, a battered comic book open in his lap but unread. The ceiling fan above him made a tired, uneven whir, struggling to push the heat around.
Jeromy was lying in the corner in his secondhand crib, fussing, the faint whimpers building into restless cries. Peter glanced at him and then toward the hallway where his parents were. He'd learned to recognize the signs—the sharp tone in his mom's voice, the heavy footsteps of his dad. It was like watching dark clouds gather before a storm. Sarah's voice ripped through the house.
"Hale! Where the hell is my bag?!" Peter flinched at the sound. The comic slid from his hands onto the floor. From the other room, Hale's reply came, slow and dripping with irritation. "What bag?"
"Don't play dumb with me," Sarah snapped, her footsteps stomping toward him. "The brown one. The one I keep in the closet. You think I wouldn't notice?!"
Hale didn't even bother getting up from the couch in the living room. He had a glass of whiskey balanced in one hand, the TV playing some late-night poker tournament he wasn't really watching.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said, eyes still on the screen.
"Bullshit!" Sarah's voice cracked, half rage, half panic. "It was right there, under my clothes. You think I don't know? My coke was in there! And the money I had left! You took it ALL!" Hale finally turned his head to look at her, his jaw tightening. "Your coke? You mean that garbage you keep snorting up your nose while the rest of us starve? Come on...tell us more" Sarah's eyes narrowed into slits. "Don't you dare start with me. At least I don't blow every damn paycheck at the casino!" Jeromy's cry grew louder, as if he could feel the tension thickening in the air. Peter rose from the couch instinctively and went to pick him up, bouncing him gently to soothe him, but his eyes stayed locked on his parents.
"You're a liar," Sarah spat. "You took my bag because you can't help yourself. You probably traded my coke for more chips to lose at the tables." Hale stood now, slamming his glass down on the coffee table so hard a crack splintered through it. "Oh, that's rich, Sarah. You're blaming me for our mess? You're the one sniffing half your brain away while our kids eat stale bread!" Peter flinched again at the sound of the glass hitting the wood, his arms tightening around Jeromy. The baby whimpered but didn't scream, sensing the solid warmth of his brother's embrace. Sarah jabbed a finger into Hale's chest. "Don't you dare try to twist this! I was fine before I met you. You're the one who dragged us into this hellhole of a life. Your gambling, your drinking. it's why we're broke. It's why we're miserable motherfucker!"
Hale let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Oh yeah? And what exactly do you bring to the table, Sarah? Huh? A great mom? A role model? You can't even wake up before noon unless you need a hit. You call yourself a mother?" Her eyes went wide, hurt flashing behind the fury. "Don't you dare talk to me about being a mother. At least I'm here! You disappear for days, come back smelling like whiskey and sweat, with empty pockets, eyes bloodshot—and I'm the one holding this family together!" Peter could see Hale's fists clench, his whole body tense. He'd seen his dad angry before, but there was something different tonight—a sharp edge, like he was about to break.
"You call this holding us together?" Hale barked, gesturing around the room. "We live in a dump, the rent's past due, and our kids are..." He stopped himself, glancing toward Peter, then continued, "...growing up watching their mother snort herself stupid!"
Sarah stepped back like the words had slapped her. Her breathing was heavy, ragged. "You think you're any better? You think you're some hero? You're pathetic, Hale. You've lost everything you ever touched, and now you're dragging us all down with you." Peter swallowed hard, rocking Jeromy gently, his eyes darting between them. He hated this. Hated the shouting, the way the words cut sharper than any knife. Hale's voice dropped lower, quieter, but the venom in it was unmistakable. "Maybe I wouldn't have to gamble so much if I didn't need to escape from you every damn day."
Sarah's lips trembled, but she masked it with a sneer. "You're a coward. You run from your problems, from your family, from your responsibilities. You'd rather sit at a poker table losing our last dollar than face the truth."
"The truth?" Hale's laugh was hollow. "The truth is I married a woman who'd rather get high than raise her kids. The truth is I'm stuck here with a junkie and two mouths to feed on nothing but debt!"
Peter's chest ached. He looked down at Jeromy, who had gone quiet again but clung to Peter's shirt, his tiny fists bunching the fabric. Sarah's face twisted with rage. "Don't you dare talk about my kids like they're just mouths to feed. They're my children. You've never done a damn thing for them."
"Our children," Hale snapped, stepping closer, "and I'm the one keeping them alive, whether you want to admit it or not."
"Alive?" she scoffed. "You think this is living? Look around, Hale! We're rotting in this place. You're rotting. And you're taking us with you." The silence that followed was heavy, only broken by the hum of the fan and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Peter could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Finally, Sarah's voice cracked, the fury giving way to something rawer. "You… you ruined me, Hale." Hale's jaw tightened, but his voice was flat. "No, Sarah. You ruined yourself."
For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked like two wolves circling. Then Sarah turned away, muttering under her breath as she stormed toward the bedroom. Hale sank back into the couch, picking up his glass and draining what was left. He didn't look at Peter. Didn't look at Jeromy.
Jeromy's cry began to cut through the room like a siren high-pitched, desperate, and relentless. It was the kind of sound that got under your skin, the kind you couldn't tune out no matter how much you wanted to. Peter's arms stiffened around his baby brother, rocking him gently in a useless attempt to calm him. His own heartbeat felt loud in his ears, thumping in rhythm with Jeromy's sobs.
Hale slammed his empty glass down so hard the rim cracked, sending a thin line through the cheap glass. His jaw clenched, his bloodshot eyes locking on Peter like a target. "Not again, For Christ's sake..." Hale growled, dragging his hand down his face. "Get the fuck outta here with that damn baby!"
Peter froze for a second, startled even though this wasn't the first time his father had barked like that.
"I'm trying to..." Peter started, voice small but steady.
"Don't try me, boy!" Hale shot back, pointing a trembling finger toward the hallway. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit today. That screaming..." He jabbed a thumb toward Jeromy, "...is driving me insane. I can't think with that noise. You want to play daddy? Fine. But do it somewhere else."
Peter swallowed hard, his throat tight. Jeromy's cries only grew louder, feeding off the tension in the air. "I'm just trying to keep him calm," Peter muttered, more to himself than to his father, but Hale heard it. "You think you know better than me now?" Hale snapped, staggering to his feet. The chair scraped across the worn linoleum, the sound grating. "Don't stand there and act like you're some saint. You think because you carry him around you're better than me? Huh?" Peter shook his head, but Hale was already moving, pacing the small living room like a caged animal. "You don't know a damn thing about real life, kid. All you know is crying babies and running your mouth when you should be listening." Jeromy's tiny hands clutched Peter's shirt, his cries trembling against Peter's chest. Peter turned toward the hallway, but Hale's voice followed him, sharp and cutting. "And shut that kid up before I lose it! You hear me?" Peter didn't answer. He just kept walking, clutching Jeromy a little tighter, as if the small warmth in his arms was the only shield he had from the venom in his father's words.
Behind him, Hale dropped back into his chair with a grunt, muttering something Peter couldn't make out. But the sting of the moment—the way his father's voice had cracked like a whip lingered long after Peter disappeared into the dim bedroom, at the end of the hall. Peter stood there in the middle of the room, holding his baby brother, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep in his chest. Somewhere in his young mind, a quiet truth began to take root, no one was coming to save them.