Chapter 19: Thirty Seconds

"I want to answer it myself," Miles said.

It was Sunday night, and the teaser had been on every screen in town for a day.

We sat at the kitchen table with the laptop open between us and Marcy's lawyer on speaker.

"A cease-and-desist won't stop a live broadcast," the lawyer said. "Your husband signed. I can threaten the network, but they'll air it anyway."

"Then we threaten nobody," I said. "We could write a statement."

"No," said Miles.

"Honey..."

"Mom, if you write it, they'll say you wrote it." He pushed his sleeves up. "Let me do it. Thirty seconds. If it's bad, we don't post it."

I looked at my son.

He was fifteen, with ink on his thumb from his music folder, and he had never in his life asked me to let him do a hard thing.

"What would you say?" I asked.

"The truth, only shorter."

The front door opened.

"It's me," Abram called. "I come bearing groceries, and a rotisserie chicken I can't take credit for."

He came into the kitchen with two paper bags and stopped when he saw our faces.

"Bad time?"

"Perfect time," Miles said. "I need someone to hold a phone."

"I've held worse."

"Mom, you can't be in the shot."

"Where do I stand?"

"Behind the camera," said Miles, "where you've been standing for me my whole life."

He said it matter-of-factly, and I turned away to hide my face and began to unpack the bags.

Abram set the chicken down and came to stand beside me.

"You've got a pencil in your hair," he said very quietly.

"Do I?"