want, but you can’t possibly hate Dad.” Eijeh’s eyes went hazy. Not quite blank, but far, far away, instead. “I don’t— He was always at work. Never at home.” “He was home all the time.” Akos spat out the words like they had rotted. “He made dinner. He checked our homework. He told stories. You don’t remember?” But he knew the answer to his own question. It was in Eijeh’s blank eyes. Of course, of course Ryzek had taken Eijeh’s memories of their dad—he had to have been so horrified by his own father that he’d stolen theirs instead. Suddenly Akos’s hands were in fists in Eijeh’s shirt, and he
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