Then came the elbow.

Bill sighed, the sigh of a man who had long ago accepted the chaos of his blended family. He put down the drill.

Just then, his dad, Bill, walked in from the garage, holding a power drill. He surveyed the scene: his wife in a fighter’s stance, his stepson curled in the fetal position amidst the remains of a beloved giraffe, making sounds like a deflating balloon.

Claire practiced the motion. Stomp. Elbow back. It was clean. It was sharp. It was a thing of martial-arts beauty.