Suddenly Peter grabbed center stage. This memory is vivid. My parents went out for dinner. I sat cross-legged on the couch doing homework, playing an Elvis Presley record. I looked at him, now twelve years. He was hunched over a pile of clothes in the middle of Mums Persian rug. "What are you doing?" Peter had a lighted match in his hand and was moving it towards his new school uniform. I ran at him, yelling "Stop!" His face contorted, he grabbed the poker and now I ran from the house. Peter followed wielding the poker. "Ill get you . . . Dont interfere!" Then he shrieked like a wounded...