Jack almost did not look up from his geography book when he heard his mother ask, “What is that Timmy’s playing with?” There was a vague but familiar hint of fear in her voice and that made Jack pay attention. He glanced across the room at his little brother and then back toward her.

“It’s nothing, Ma,” Jack said. “He has a toy.”

Ma sat on the sofa across from him. Outwardly, she appeared calm but Jack knew from the look in her eyes that she was all nervous energy. In her lap was a stack of bills and letters that she had been sifting through, circling phrases and numbers with a black felt marker. Those were the “codes” – secret messages – she often found hidden in her mail.

“I think it’s a bomb,” Jack’s mother said. She rose abruptly from the soiled sofa. “Timmy, put that down!”

Timmy looked up from the rug and held up his rocket toy. He looked from his mother to his brother.

The woman stamped her feet. “It’s a bomb, Timmy!”

Jack got up from his chair. “It’s not a bomb, Ma,” he said. “It’s a toy. You got him that last Christmas.”

“Get it away from him, Jack. They’re going to kill us.”

Timmy started to cry.

“They’re not going to kill us,” Jack said. He walked over to Timmy and took the toy. The rocketship had two detachable booster rockets, made of bright orange plastic. He removed the booster rockers.

“There. I defused it.”

“Give it to me,” she said. “We’ve got to get it out of the house.”

He gave it to her, watched her run outside to throw it into the dumpster next door.

“My toy,” Timmy said.

“I’ll get you another one just like it,” Jack said. “Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich. You haven’t had any lunch.”

Jack brought the peanut butter and bread out of the kitchen. He set them on the coffee table. When he opened the bread bag, three roaches scurried out.

“I don’t want that bread,” Timmy said.

“I’ll get the other loaf.” Jack went to the kitchen and returned with another loaf of bread. This one hadn’t been opened and was roach-free.

Ma came back in. She stared at Timmy.

“I made him a sandwich,” Jack said.

“Did you test the bread? You have to test everything, Jack. It could be poisoned.”

“I threw some out back to the pigeons. Only three of them died.”

“Oh!”

Jack intercepted her before she could take the sandwich away. “The bread’s all right, Ma. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You know they’re out to kill us.”

“Then call the police.”

“The police are in on it, too. Why do you think they keep driving by?”

Jack knew why.

“Don’t trust anyone,” Ma said. She walked into her bedroom and locked the door.

Jack sat on the sofa and glanced at his schoolbooks. Some of his homework was three days overdue. He decided it would have to be four days overdue. He picked up a pornography magazine that one of his mother’s boyfriends had left and flipped through it.

Ma came out of her room, eyes glazed, a dot of blood on her arm. She gaped at Jack, peered at the magazine. She strode over and snatched it.

“I don’t ever want to see you looking at that again,” she said. “This magazine is dirty, filthy. Do you see that? Do you see what they are trying to do to you?” She thrust it before his face and pointed to the open page. “Do you see the codes?”

Jack looked where her finger was pointing. All he saw was a woman’s ass. A fine one at that.

“Do you see them?”

Then he saw what she meant. Some beer had spilled on the page, making it transparent. Jack could see the print from an article on the next page through the model’s thighs. Cindy: I had a typical, Midwestern childhood, the print read backwards.

“They’re trying to brainwash you, Jack. Oh, the filthy bastards!” She ripped the pages out of the magazine and then tore them into fragments.

“Oh, how can they put those codes into something dirty like that so that a kid would look at it?” she said.

She looked around the room. “Where’s Timmy?” she said.

“I saw him go in your room.”

“You know he’s not supposed to go in there. Go get him, Jack.”

“All right. I’ll get him,” Jack said. I wish she’d quit bothering me when she’s tweakin’, he thought. Or, at least, get someone to watch after Timmy. He walked to his mother’s room, reflecting that, since he was only thirteen, maybe he shouldn’t be the parent.

Jack found Timmy sitting on the unmade bed. He was rummaging through the overflowing ashtray, the beer bottles, bent spoons, cotton, razor blades, candles, matches, and corners of clear plastic bags. He saw Timmy look in the pocket mirror, spotted with white powder. The little boy picked up a syringe and swung it through the air like he had swung the rocketship earlier.

“Hey, Jack, look,” he said. “It’s a space shuttle.”