Ira Glass

I don't know.

I guess I was mad about my dad and things.

He had to go to jail, Timothy said, your dad.

Just for one night.

How come?

He had too much to drink, I said.

Did you visit him in jail, Timothy said.

No, stupid God, you belong in special school, Timothy.

I hope they make you eat special food and wear a special helmet or something.

I heard the distant slam of the school's front door and then a pair of hard shoes knocking along the hall.

Here comes your mother, I said.

What kind of special helmet, said Timothy.

Ant-Man wears a helmet.

Mrs. Stokes entered the office.

She was a tall, thin woman, much older than my mother, with long, gray hair and red, veiny hands.

Every morning, she made Timothy pancakes for his breakfast, which sounded okay, until you found out that she put things in them like carrots and leftover pieces of corn.

"'Oh, hello, Paul,' she said in her Eeyore voice."

Mrs. Stokes, said Mrs. Gladfelter, coming out of the principal's office.

It's been kind of a long afternoon for Timothy, I'm afraid.

How is Virginia, said Mrs. Stokes.