“No one’s complained so far,” Malcolm says. My father doesn’t say a word, but his fists tighten, and the muscles in his forearms stand out like cords. “No one ever does until it happens to them,” my mother says, offering me the icing knife to lick clean. “You know the old story about boiling the frog? If you put the frog in a pot of boiling water, he’ll jump out.” She silences Malcolm with a hand and smiles. “If, on the other hand, you put the frog in a pot of cold water and turn up the heat one degree at a time, well, before long you’ll have a boiled frog. And he’ll never know what’s coming.”
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