Viktor sat back among his wives and listened to his one-month-old sons debate culinary iteration, and he understood, with the calm of a man accepting the weather, that these were not normal children. There was no path back to normal children. There was only adapting to the little bombs he had made.
"Alright, my champs," he said. "Tell me about the eggs. From the beginning. Father is listening."
And for the first hour of their lives, both boys had their father's complete, unrepentant attention, and they spoke of egg viscosity and heat distribution and the correct moment of removal from the pan, and Viktor asked questions at all the right places, and the twins glowed.
Night came down over Millbrook soft and silver.
In the master bedroom, both twins slept in the crook of Viktor's arms, one against each bicep, their tiny fists curled, their spectacles folded on the nightstand. Their faces had gone slack and round and ordinary. Milk breath. Small snores.
