Roger is in the kitchen, his arms moving the food around in the pan, but he doesn't seem to care about your crying. You're on the floor, kicking and screaming, your cheeks wet and eyes red. The sobs pour out of your throat like a raging sea of demands and pleas.

"I want my juice!" you shout, reaching your arms toward the table. There, a box of juice seems as distant as a burned-out star. Roger doesn't even glance at you. He stirs the pan with a fork, tapping the metal edge with indifference. Not a look, not a gesture of acknowledgment.

David is in the living room. Every whimper that escapes your mouth is like an echo in his ears, a constant repetition he tries to ignore but that digs into him like a thorn.

"Stop crying, he's not going to give you the juice," he says without looking up. He knows Roger can be as stubborn as you. And he won't give it to you because you secretly drank the other juice box. You know David could get up and give it to you, but he doesn't. You and Roger are locked in a battle of wills, a tug-of-war where neither of you is willing to give in first.