“He needs to trim up for Mother’s Day,” Father sharply insists. To Wicker, he explains, “You’re escorting in four events that weekend, and I won’t have you looking like some beast. They like you to be lean and unthreatening.” The table rattles as Wicker slams down his fork. “Am I your whore or your prestige athlete? You can’t have both.” “You’re whatever I damn well say you are!”
