My infant son’s parole officer called me three times over the course of lunch, completely ruining my enjoyment of an authentic, non-illusory Monte Cristo sandwich.

“There’s been a waveform collapse in Buster’s case, according to the Juvenile Court of San Los Angeles Canton,” he told me when I finally answered. “His probation has been suspended. He’ll have to surrender himself at the Justice Center downtown in seventeen years and two months. I’ve sent your calendar an invite.” He was obviously trying to be nice about it, but I wasn’t having any.

“Screw you, Marplethresher,” I growled and tapped my wrist to end the call. I would have to find my son a better attorney before preschool, or emigrate with him to somewhere smelly. Feh. Damned statistical court system.