There was no need for an adrenaline dump to leap from the table to the coat closet where our son stood calmly clutching two knives in his fist, one, a foot long with serrated teeth, the other, suited for steak.
Because our son spoke first.
“Dad,” he said, his voice articulate and even, “please don’t scare on me.”
At which time we felt our behinds reseat themselves and our own calm return.
Our son held the knives steady. Then in one breath he said, “Cause I just found these in the tool box and didn’t know what you wanted me to do with them.”