“What are you drawing?” Owen asks our son, pulling up a chair to sit next to him at the kitchen table. A table that will need clearing of all the art supplies scattered over it in less than ten minutes if these goons want any dinner.
Bishop mumbles something unintelligible, concentrating too hard to speak up.
“Belushi? Like the comedian?” Owen chuckles, a little bewildered.
“A beluga,” I call out from across the room where I’m stirring a pot of homemade pasta sauce. “He’s been into whales lately.”
“Ah. Looks good, buddy.” Owen rubs our son’s hair.
I glance over at the twins, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Bella is rubbing a yellow crayon against her cheeks, getting dangerously close to shoving it in her mouth entirely.
“Owen, she’s got the crayon in her mouth again.”
He leans over an
