Finals, then one more semester. Everything is on track for me to break out of there in May.” “Why do you make it sound like you’re serving a prison sentence?” I ask him, rubbing my hands together as my wife pushes a beautiful omelet in front of me. “Hey, no vegetables on mine,” he tells, her. She rolls her eyes. When she gets back to the stove, she tosses the veggies in despite his request. “It is like a prison sentence.” “It can’t be that bad,” April says. “And you’re getting vegetables.” He sticks his tongue out at her, reverting to his five-year-old self. “You both know what I want to do. I
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