Catcher had always wanted kids. For six months, it had been the center of every late-night discussion with his girlfriend. She wasn’t convinced. She needed proof that this whole “parenting” idea was as fulfilling as he claimed. So, when her best friend needed a sitter for the weekend, they saw it as the perfect test run. Two kids. Two days. No problem. Or so he thought.

It was hell on earth.

The youngest, a whirlwind of chaos, woke up in a soiled bed before the sun had even risen, screaming like an alarm clock from the depths of misery. The older? A slouching, phone-addicted teenager who acted as if his thumbs were the only functional part of his body. And boundaries? The youngest didn’t even know the meaning of the word. He had climbed onto the counter within minutes of their arrival, trying to stick a spoon in the toaster.

And then there were the questions.

“What do you do?” “Why?” “But why?” “Why, though?”

Always with the why’s, a never-ending loop that had Catcher’s brain frying faster than their breakfast. By the end of the first day, he was pacing the living room, hair a mess, muttering to himself, “Who does this on purpose?”