Blue eyes on the clock.

"Morris, it's ten to four."

"I know," he grumbled.

"It's a twenty-minute drive in traffic, y'know."

"Yeh," he peeped.

"He's going to be late."

Finally, Morris' gaze lifted from his dirty hands. The water streaming from the shining skin into the clean, gleaming white basin. "Fuck's sake, I know, Ellen," he sighed. "Ain't the end of the fuckin' world."

"It isn't fair! He's losing learning time and the rest of the class gets held up waiting for him. Or the teacher has to teach everything twice."

"I don't know how they handle it," mumbled Morris.

"And what kind of lesson are you teaching him about responsibility?" raved Ellen. "What kind of example are you? The rest of the world operates on a clock. You can run and hide from it, but you can't raise your fucking son to be like that. You owe him better than that, fuckin' turning out like you."

Morris stared at his hands. Turned them over and over in the water. Anything not to look at her. Anything not to look into the medicine cabinet at the small army of bleak, black-inked pill bottles bearing his name. It was useless trying to explain to her anymore. He'd long since drained her compassion. She couldn't, wouldn't understand. He'd been sick far too long. It was past time he got better. He was just milking it now. Faking it.

Gavin listened at the bottom stair, not emotional, not impatient. He flicked the lock on his cello case back and forth. Still couldn't define "fuck." They said it so often. It seemed to mean everything.