It’s a Saturday—bright and sunny.

  Max Gibbs’ phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It rung and rung, its rapid vibration threatening to shake the island table; the dented cell phone case ricocheting off the bowl of fruit. When it finally stops, the screen reveals five missed calls and twenty text messages.

  His wife unexpectedly throws up in the bathroom sink; a bad bout of morning sickness. She is five months along, and the smell of anything, especially scrambled eggs or bacon, made her gag. He’d tried lighter options, like oatmeal, bananas—the doctors had advised him that this should be last one before he’d get a vasectomy. It would be a challenge for the new baby, given that their five brothers were almost a decade and a half older, with the second youngest being a junior in high school. The pregnancy had been unexpected for the both of them.

  Secretly, Max hopes that it would be a girl.

  He makes ginger tea for his wife, helps her into the bed, tucks the blankets around her. She can’t drink the tea, so he leaves it on the nightstand. A few moments later she is fast asleep. Max rolls up his sleeves and heads over to the bathroom to clean up the sink.

  As he’s getting more trash bags from the kitchen, his phone vibrates again. He picks it up from the table annd exhales when he sees Donovan’s name on the screen. After shooting a text to his second youngest son and letting him know to come home straight after school to watch over his mother, he grabs his car keys. He renters the bedroom, places a kiss on his wife’s sleeping face, and heads for the garage.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Max’s minivan slows up in front of the Hasward mansion. He lowers his shades. He’s only been at the place a couple of times, and why Donovan wanted him to meet up here instead of the office was beyond him. After glancing at his watch, he gets out the car and heads up the curved, marble driveway, past the sparkling water fountain.

  A group of gardeners work on the sprawling lawn and garden, digging and weeding and mowing the grass. Up ahead lies a large basketball, tennis, and gulf court. Max tugs at his dress shirt—the sweltering heat causes dark sweat stains to form underneath his arms. Wearily, he approaches the front steps of the mansion and knocks at the door. He looks down and checks his cell phone again. A new text flashes across the screen.

  Stuck in traffic, Don sent. Will arrive in twenty.

  Aggravated, Max rolls his eyes. Twenty missed minutes away from his wife and the baby. Hopefully, this assignment won’t take too long, and he will be able to get this—

  “Hi.”

  Max slowly turns around, wiping his forehead.

  It’s a kid—probably no older than eight or nine years old. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, where a tuff of blonde hair sticks out over his round, small face. His T-shirt and shorts are stained with mud, and snot is crusted around his nose. Both of his shoelaces are untied, with mismatched printed socks. Three bandaids are stuck over his left knee, and he blows a large bubble from the gum he’s chewing. He wipes his snotty nose again.

  “Um,” Max replies, glancing around. Besides the staff working on the yard, he sees no one with this little boy, who has seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Hey.”

  ”I kicked my ball too high.! It’s up in a tree.” The kid points near the garage. “Can you get it down for me?”

  ”You did?” Max asks.

  The little boy nods, his blue eyes widening. “I’m practicing. To get in the soccer club.”

  ”At school?”

  Another nod. “Yeah.”

  Max glances at his phone again, before setting down his briefcase. Well, at least he’d have something to pass the time until Don gets back. “You wanna show me where it is?”

  Without a word, the boy skips forward, his knotted shoelaces flying around his ankles. Before Max could warn him to tie them, they finally approach a sprawling oak tree, its branches extended out towards the sky. On the highest branches, buried deep below the dense green, lies a hint of black and white. The kid stops at the base of the trunk and turns around, his nose and cheeks red.

  “There,” he says.

  ”You must have a powerful kick to get it up all the way up in that spot,” Max says. He smiles. “Let me see what I can do.” After rolling up his sleeves, he grips the lower branches, wincing. Ooof. His body is going to hate him after this—all those missed workouts at the gym were coming back to him. He lifts himself from one branch to the other, leaves and ants getting into his face. He tries to not look at how high he is from the ground, or how blisters are forming on his feet beneath his dress shoes. He grabs another branch.

  “You see it?” the kid yells.

  ”I think so,” Max replies. Feeling around, his fingers finally make contact with something cold and smooth. With a grunt, he knocks it down, letting the soccer ball fall through the air. It takes him a good few minutes to climb down, but once he jumps off the lowest branch he takes a deep breath. His shirt is streaked with green, and he knocks a few leaves that are stuck into his hair. He bends down to catch his breath, even though the kid is still staring at him, fidgeting with his arms. He spits out the him he’s chewing on the grass.

  “Alright,” Max says. “Go on now.” He’s about to head back to the driveway again when he feels a small tug on his sleeve. He looks down.

  ”Can you play with me?” the boy asks.

  “I…” Max begins. “Look, I’m really—”

  ”Pleaseeeese, pretty please?”

  It is so hot that Max’s shirt is glued to his skin. Where the heck were this kid’s parents? Does Don have a neighbor visiting over here? “It’s just that I’m expecting someone, and—”

  The boy’s face falls.

  Max sighs. Clearly, Don hasn’t arrived yet—his familiar gray BMW is nowhere in sight. He kneels down in the grass, resting an arm on his knees. “I’ll tell you what. We can scrimmage for a couple of minutes. But I have to go back to the house, okay? I have a very important meeting with someone here that I can’t miss. So when they arrive, I’ll have to go. How does that sound?”

  ”Yay!” the boy exclaims. He runs over and picks up the soccer ball and a crooked stick. After drawing a line in the dirt, he points it at Max. “Alright, do you see this? This is your goal and my goal.” He grins—two of his front teeth are missing. "I’ll go easy on you, since it’s your first time, mister. One on one."

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  Max chuckles. "Okay, bud." His feet are already killing him in his dress shoes, and he knows his wife won't be happy about the shirt—since she'd spent all of last night ironing it. With his foot, the boy flicks the ball onto his knee, before getting it over his head. His skinny legs skillfully move the ball through the dense grass, easily shooting it over the line.

  Well, someone’s going pro, Max thinks.

  “I get a point!” the kid yells, raising both arms over his head. “You’re slow.”

  ”Who, me?” Max asks, pointing at his chest. “I know you’re not talking to me, are you? Also, you’re in cleats, buddy. You got the full gear and everything. I have dress shoes. This totally put me at a disadvantage.”

  ”Blah, blah, blah—” the boy begins, before Max steals the ball away from him. “Hey!”

  ”I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  The boy’s giggles fill the air as he rushes after Max, his hat flying off. He has a wild head of unruly blonde hair that blows in the wind.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Neither them see the car pull up on the driveway, its paint glistening in the light.

  They don’t see Donovan Hasward’s ringed fingers placed on the steering wheel, his large blue eyes scanning the vast yard. Nor do they hear the sound of his shoes against the curved driveway, or his shadow coming up against the wall. It’s only when the soccer ball rolls to a stop against his feet do they look up.

  Max is drenched in sweat from head to toe. A surprised look crosses his face, and he smiles and waves. “Oh hey, Don! Figured you—”

  ”I apologize for the wait.”

  ”Oh, it’s no problem. Your neighbor’s kid here is very talented. I’m not sure if you’ve—“

  ”Can you wait for me in my office, please?” Don asks, tucking a strand of thick hair behind his ear. “One of my staff should let you in. It’s really shameful that they didn’t. I’ll have a word about them being respectful to guests. You can just set up everything on my desk.”

  “Sure thing.” Max glances at the boy, who has suddenly become very quiet and still. “It was nice meeting you, kid. Keep practicing, and I know that day you’ll make it into the—”

  ”Max,” Don said in a quiet tone, although a bit sharper. “Head over to my office and set up.”

  A look of confusion spreads over Max’s face, but before he could take a step forward, a small hand suddenly grabs his wrist. Tight. Fingernails digging in his flesh. The boy’s blue eyes dart up at him, then back and Don, who is calmly observing them from driveway.

  Max’s throat grows dry. He’s just a kid, he thinks. What the hell is the big deal?

  “El,” Don firmly says.

  The boy abruptly shakes his head.

  ”Release him now, El. I won’t ask you again.” Don’s blue eyes narrow. “I mean it.” He nods at Max, who has shivers running down his spine. Despite the heat, he is suddenly cold.

  * * * * * * * *

  Max sets his files down on the desk. He’s reaching into the briefcase for his laptop before the sound of voices outside the door gets his attention. Rising from his seat, he opens it just a crack to see both Don and El standing in the hallway. Don’s tone is a lot more stern, and he wags his finger at the young boy, who is fighting back tears. He clutches his soccer ball in his hands.

  “What have I told you about getting in the way?” he sharply asks. “What did I?”

  “I wasn’t,” El weakly replies. “Honest.”

  ”You want to lie about this now?”

  ”I’m not lying about anything!”

  ”You know the rules. You do not interact with any of my clients. Especially from work. You stay in your room.” Don grabs the soccer ball from the boy’s hands. “I’ll be taking this, including the Nintendo. Since you aren’t content with any of these, you’re not fit to have them. I’m not working all these hours just for you to be ungrateful and whine.”

  “Give it back!” the boy tries to reach for the ball, but Don’s eyes narrow as he holds it out of each. “I need that to practice for school.”

  ”Want to try me? It’s the TV next.”

  “I don’t care about the stupid TV!” El yells. “I don’t care. Why can’t you just be here for once?” His voice shakes. “You’re never here.”

  Don’s face darkens. “That’s it. I’m sending you over to your mother’s. Get up to your room right now and start packing. You’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes.” He rubs his temples and begins to walk down the hall. With his left hand, he motions to a maid dusting the stairwell. “Make sure he leaves.”

  ”But…but I wanted you to come to see me at the soccer club. Our game is coming up! You…you promised!”

  ”Well,” Don throws his hands up, “looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon, will it? You should’ve thought of that before rudely interrupting my coworker. You don’t leave your room without my permission, or only if the staff say so for meals. Ever.”

  “No!” El’s eyes are watery. “No, no, please!”

  ”I’ve given you many chances, but you’re clearly not catching on. I won’t have you here disrupting my staff or my clients. Until you can handle yourself, you can’t stay here. I’ve put enough for the past three months. No more.”

  “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!”

  El frantically grabs at his father’s sleeve, but he nudges him to the side. “No! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me. Noooo! Noooooo!” His screams grow louder as the woman, scoops the young boy up in her arms. His strangled sobs echo in the hallway, his legs swinging back and forth as he tries to break free. She restrains him. As Don passes them without so much as a glance in their direction, El screams from the top of his lungs,

  ”I wish you were DEAD!”

  Don pauses for a moment, adjusting his watch. He clears his throat, straightens out his suit jacket and blinks a couple of times. The child’s shrieks pierce through the walls, mixed with the maid trying to reassure him. As he bursts into tears, he finally buries his head into her shoulders, and she carries him away, speaking softly in his ear.

  Max takes a step back from the door just as it opens. His mouth falls slightly open.

  Don steps past him and sets the soccer ball on a chair by the desk, turning on the light. He reaches into a nearby cabinet, pulls out a bottle of whiskey, and sets out two glasses on the surface with a thump. His hands shake as he pours the liquid, the rings catching in the light from the sun shining in the window.

  “How you doing, Max?”

  ”Uh, not too bad. How are you?”

  ”Managing.”

  A deep silence falls between them.

  ”Can you pull up the reports from the last fiscal year?” Don quietly asks, clearing a few strands of blonde hair from his forehead, “I need to review those to ensure that they are up to par for next week’s meeting.” He hold out a glass. “You look like you need this.”

  Max silently accepts it, taking a short swig. He clears his throat. “Is that your—”

  ”Nephew,” Don quickly says. “He’s my nephew. Don’t mind him; he’s high strung. I take him in from time to time. His mother’s been having some major health issues.” He drums his fingers against the table. “So you must excuse him. I assure you it won’t happen again. I’d much rather have us meet in the office, but you know that they’re doing renovations to the building and all.”

  “What? No, no,” Max replies, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s not the case at all, really. He didn’t bother me at all—”

  ”I would prefer,” Don whispers, “that we not talk about this anymore. I won’t lie to you and pretend that I’ve got it all together, because nobody does.” He sits down on a chair and pulls out his computer. “But what’s family business stays as family business.” His blue eyes flash. “Again, you must excuse me.”

  Max doesn’t know what to say. Was this the same shy, awkward boy from high school who could barely put two sentences together without stuttering? He could hardly recognize his best friend. Sure, when they got stressed with work, they could be down in the dumps, but they always pulled through. He sighs.

  ”Look, I…”

  Don silently shifts through a pile of papers.

  ”That’s not right now. To send him off.”

  ”Hmm.”

  ”I…I think you were too hard on him, you know? He’s just a kid. Why not take him out to a soccer game? He’s very, very talented, Don. I have five boys myself. I’m just saying that it’s okay to take off time to spend with your kid. I mean yeah, he disobeyed you, but can’t you see that—”

  ”He’s not my damn kid.” Don’s voice rises, and Max jumps as he slams his fist against the desk. Both glasses rattle. “Don’t you ever say that in my house again, you hear me? He’s not mine. I took him in, raised him like my own. But he’s not mine. You need to get that right.”

  Max stares at him.

  ”He’s not mine,” Don repeats, pausing for a moment. “He’s my nephew. I told you that.” He then rubs his face. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I just—” He stands up and pats Max’s shoulder. “Go ahead and get those files ready for me.”

  As he leaves the room, Max reaches for the mess of papers on the desk, catching a glimpse of the monitor. Taped to the bottom is a grainy photograph of a little boy sitting on Don’s shoulders, ice cream cone in hand. He studies the picture for a very long time.