63.
"Dad? He doesn't know jack-shit about this, you hear?" Peter's voice crept through the halls. I was tempted to run in and slap him for his dirty vocabulary.
Miranda grabbed my arm before I could move. Her fingers curled around my thick forearm and her eyes, hardened by war, bore into mine. She shook her head silently. 'Why not?' I mouthed. She tugged me back and I followed. 'Listen.' She mouthed back.
So I did.
And I learned a lot.
Peter, nearly seventeen, spoke to his sister who was his junior of three years. She listened intently, I assumed, though I couldn't look through walls. Miranda held on to me, her forehead resting against my shoulder. I rubbed her back.
"Why do you hate him?" Helen asked. Her voice was high pitched with curiosity and worry.
"I do not hate him," Peter said. Then he lowered his voice, so we could no longer hear his words. They slipped from him, poised with venom. My muscles must have flexed because Miranda pulled me back, shaking her head fiercely.
Helen paused. I could imagine her contemplating in her slow, wide-eyed way. "You mean…?"
"Yeah, you got it." Peter laughed.
I turned back to Miranda who shrugged simply and told me to step away. "Let's go eat out tonight." She said. Her instincts were keen. I knew better than to doubt them. I nodded.
And Peter lived another day.