I have three sons. Fletcher is seventeen and has taken on the unofficial job as my personal bodyguard. Harry is thirteen, and I swear to God he’s either going to end up a Nobel Prize–winning genius or in jail. He is the most mischievous human being I know, always getting into some kind of trouble—mostly at school. And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not.
