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There’s a pause.

“Riley?”

“I’m calling about your son and Tova Nilsson.”

Another pause, different this time.

“I know who you are. We met at the Stampede foundation golf thing last year.”

“Then we can skip introductions.”

“What happened?”

“Your son has been giving Tova trouble at school.”

He exhales.

“I heard about the fight.”

“So did I.”

“She hit him.”

“She did.”

That stops him.

I move around the island and turn the television off completely.

“She was wrong to hit him. She got suspended. She served it. But it’s kept happening.”

“What has?”

“He tells other kids she smells. Makes comments about Sweden. Before that it was her mother’s accent.”

Silence.

Then, “My son says she hates him.”

“She probably does.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“I don’t need them to like each other.”

“What do you need?”

“For him to leave her alone.”

His voice hardens.

“You’re calling me at work because two twelve-year-olds don’t get along?”

“I’m calling because one of them has been telling the other one the same shit for months, and today he followed her down a hallway doing it after she tried to walk away.”

“Did he touch her?”

“No.”