When he refused, his mother laughed. His father stood up and put his hands on him.
Thomas’s lip split against the table edge. He tasted copper. He pressed one hand flat against the table and stayed very still.
Then he reached into his bag.
The document was folded in thirds, plain as anything — a county recorder’s stamp, a property description, a transfer date, a company name. He laid it on the table between the chicken and his father’s hand.
His father picked it up. Read it once. Read it again. The room watched the power leave him the way water leaves a cracked glass — steadily, completely, without drama.
