“Dad?”
Captain Teague sighed, leaning back in his chair as his only son crept up to the side of it.
“What is it Jackie?” he asked, closing his eyes as Jack clambered up into his father's lap, his small frame light on Teague's knees. “Shouldn't you be going to bed?”
“Carl got me into an argument,” began the nine-year-old boy. Teague didn't bother correcting him, he had never found correct speech helpful at all in real life. “He was tellin' me a story, and told me his mom told him.”
“What's there to argue about?” Teague decided to humor him for once and listened. Jack swung his leg
