weeks ago.”
He looked toward me.
“My wife has popcorn in her hair and soda on her clothes. She has asked you politely more than once.”
Then he looked back at the man.
“So no. We’re not moving.”
The father stared at him.
“That isn’t my problem.”
“No,” Owen said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
He gestured toward me.
“But she is my responsibility.”
Then he looked at Ethan.
“And he’s yours.”
The manager nodded.
She had heard enough.
“I can offer you a refund or tickets for another showing,” she told the family. “But I need you to leave tonight.”
The mother protested.
The father complained.
But eventually they gathered their belongings.
As they stood, the father took Ethan by the arm and hurried him out.
The boy looked back.
Not at me.
At Owen.
For only a second.
But I saw his face.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
He looked frightened.
