The invoice pads are still in my hand when Cal pushes through the office door.
Cal: Mommy, I'm thirsty.
Arlen doesn't look up. He just moves his keys an inch across the desk, like he's deciding something.
I find a juice box in the little fridge and poke the straw in for him.
He drinks it with his sneakers swinging, happy, because he's five and a chair is a good enough day.
Arlen: Keep him off my desk.
It happens in one second. His elbow goes out and the box tips over.
Juice runs across the invoices, off the edge, onto the floor, onto Arlen's boot.
Cal: Sorry. Sorry, Mommy.
Arlen stands up slow. That's how I know it's bad, because he never rushes when he's angry.
Arlen: You little shit.
Cal goes quiet. He knows that voice too.
He takes Cal by the back of the jacket and lifts him right off the chair.
Dara: Arlen, don't. He's five. He didn't mean it.
Arlen: He's five and he's already a clumsy little fuck. Just like his mother.
He walks him out into the yard with one hand. Cal's sneakers drag through the gravel.
I follow. I don't even decide to. My feet just go.
Dara: Where are you taking him? Arlen. Where are you going with my son?
Unit twelve. The door rolls up and the smell comes out, hot metal and old cardboard.
He sets Cal inside and Cal turns around and looks at me.
Cal: Mommy?
The door comes down. It's loud. It rattles all the way to the ground.
He threads the padlock and snaps it shut.
Dara: No. No, no. Open it. Arlen, open it.
I get my fingers under the edge and pull. It doesn't move.
Inside, Cal starts hitting the door with both hands.
Cal: Mommy! Mommy, it's dark! I can't see!
I turn around and I beg him. I'm not proud of it.
Dara: Please. He's scared of the dark. He's little. I'll clean it all up, every drop, please.
Arlen: Say it again. Louder.
Hank is standing by his truck with a hose in his hand, watching us like this is television.
Arlen: Louder, Dara. Let Hank hear how you ask for things.
Dara: Please open the door.
Arlen: You see that, Hank? Five fucking minutes and she's begging like a bitch in heat.
Arlen: That's the whole woman right there. No spine. All mouth.
Hank laughs, small and mean, and I want to hit him. I don't.
Arlen gets a fistful of my ponytail and pulls my head back so I have to look up at him.
Arlen: You want him out? Then shut your fucking mouth and stand there.
His fingers are still in my hair. My scalp burns. I don't move.
I say one more word. Just one.
Dara: He's crying.
He shoves me into the door. My shoulder hits the metal and my teeth click together.
Arlen: Next time you open your mouth, it's you in there and he's out here watching.
Arlen: I'll leave you in there a whole fucking night. You can scream till your throat bleeds.
I believe him. That's the worst part. I believe every word.
It goes quiet inside. That's worse than the crying.
I stand in the gravel with my shoulder throbbing and my hands shaking.
I don't know how long. Long enough for the sun to move across the fence.
Then Arlen sighs, like this was all a chore, and pulls the padlock off.
The door rolls up and Cal is on the floor with his knees to his chest.
Arlen: Get him. And clean that shit off my floor.
I pick him up and he wraps his arms around my neck so tight it hurts.
He doesn't talk. He just breathes into my shoulder, wet and fast.
Dara: It's okay. It's okay, baby. It was an accident.
I say it to him, and then I keep saying it to myself.
It was an accident. He didn't mean to scare him. He got him out.
He let us stay, and I'm a stupid bitch for making him that mad in the first place.
That night I scrub the juice out of the floor on my knees while he watches.
Arlen: There she is. See how easy that was?
I hold on to that, with both hands, because the other thing is too big to pick up. I'm the one who gave him the fucking juice box.