APHIE ENTERED THE INTERROGATION ROOM as though he was entering his own living room and was about to settle himself on his couch with his feet up for the day. There was nothing threatening about his demeanor whatsoever. Despite his height of six feet two, he fell short of filling the space his physical body took up. He was bent over in contemplation, his eyebrows mirroring the angle by drooping over his pea-sized eyes. The top of his back was slightly hunched, as though he carried a small shell there as shelter. But on his front his belly provided an even bigger shell. In one hand he held a Styrofoam cup, in the other his half-drunk NYPD mug of coffee.

The Turkey Boy glanced at the mug in Raphie’s hand. “Cool. Not.”

“So is throwing a turkey through a window.”

The boy smirked at that and started chewing on the end of the string on his hooded top.

“What made you do that anyway?”

“My dad’s a prick.”

“I gathered it wasn’t a Christmas gift for being father of the year. What made you think of the turkey?”

The boy shrugged. “My mam told me to take it out of the freezer,” he offered, as if by way of explanation.

“So how did it get from the freezer to the floor of your dad’s house?”

“I carried it most of the way, then it flew the rest.” He smirked again.

“When were you planning on having dinner?”

“At three.”

“I meant what day. It takes a minimum of twenty-four hours of defrosting time for every five pounds of turkey. Your turkey was fifteen pounds. You should have taken the turkey out of the freezer three days ago if you intended on eating it today.”

“Whatever, Ratatouille.” He looked at Raphie as if the man was crazy. “If I’d stuffed it with bananas, too, would I be in less trouble?”

“The reason I mention it is because if you had taken it out when you should have, it wouldn’t have been hard enough to go through a window. Otherwise this may sound like premeditation to a jury, and no, bananas and turkey isn’t a clever recipe.”

“I didn’t plan it!” the boy squealed, showing his age.

Raphie drank his coffee and watched the young teenager.

The boy looked at the Styrofoam cup Raphie had placed before him and wrinkled his nose. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“Okay.” Raphie lifted the Styrofoam cup from the table and emptied the contents into his mug. “Still warm. Thanks. So, tell me about this morning. What were you thinking, son?”

“Unless you’re the fat bastard whose window I threw a bird through, then I’m not your son. And what’s this, a therapy session or an interrogation? Are you charging me with something or what?”

“We’re waiting to hear whether your dad is going to press charges.”

“He won’t.” The boy rolled his eyes. “He can’t. I’m under sixteen. So if you just let me go now, you won’t waste any of your time.”

“You’ve already wasted a considerable amount of it.”

“It’s Christmas Day, I doubt there’s much else for you to do around here.” He eyed Raphie’s stomach. “Other than eat doughnuts.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Try me.”

“Some idiot kid threw a turkey through a window this morning.”

He rolled his eyes again and looked at the clock on the wall ticking away. “Where are my parents?”

“Wiping grease off their floor.”

“Those people are not my parents,” he spat. “At least she’s not my mother. If she comes with him to collect me, I’m not going.”

“Oh, I doubt very much that they’ll come to take you home with them.” Raphie reached into his pocket and took out a chocolate candy. He unwrapped it slowly, the wrapper rustling in the quiet room. “Did you ever notice the strawberry ones are always the last left over in the tin?” He smiled before popping the candy in his mouth.

“I bet nothing’s ever left in the tin when you’re around.”

Raphie ignored the jab. “So I was saying, your father and his partner—”

“Who, for the record”—the boy interrupted Raphie and leaned close to the recording device on the table—“is a whore.”

“They may pay us a visit to press charges.”

“Dad wouldn’t do that,” the boy said with a swallow, his eyes tired and puffy with frustration.

“He’s thinking about it.”

“No, he’s not,” the boy whined. “If he is, it’s probably because she’s making him. Bitch.”

“It’s more probable that he’ll do it because it’s currently snowing in his living room.”

“Is it snowing?” The boy looked like a child again, eyes now wide with hope.

Raphie sucked on his candy. “Some people just bite right into chocolate; I much prefer to suck it.”

“Suck on this.” The boy grabbed his crotch.

“You’ll have to get your boyfriend to do that.”

“I’m not gay,” he huffed, then leaned forward, and the child returned. “Ah, come on, is it snowing? Let me out to see it, will you? I’ll just look out the window.”

Raphie finished his candy and leaned his elbows on the table. He spoke firmly. “Glass from the window landed on the ten-month-old baby.”

“So?” the boy snarled, bouncing back in his chair, but he looked concerned. He began pulling at a piece of skin around his nail.

“He was beside the Christmas tree, where the turkey landed. Luckily he wasn’t cut. The baby, that is, not the turkey. The turkey sustained quite a few injuries. We don’t think he’ll make it.”

The boy looked both relieved and confused at the same time.

“When’s my mam coming to get me?”

“She’s on her way.”

“The girl with the”—he cupped his hands over his chest—“big jugs told me that two hours ago. What happened to her face, by the way? You two have a lover’s tiff?”

Raphie bristled over how the boy spoke about Jessica, but kept his calm. The kid wasn’t worth it. Was he even worth sharing the story with at all?

“Maybe your mother is driving very slowly. The roads are very slippery right now.”

The Turkey Boy thought about that again and looked a little worried. He continued pulling at the skin around his nail.

“The turkey was too big,” he said after a long pause. He clenched and unclenched his fists on the table. “She bought the same-sized turkey she used to buy when he was home. I don’t know why, but she thought he’d be coming back.”

“Your mother thought this about your dad,” Raphie confirmed, rather than asked.

The boy nodded. “When I took it out of the freezer, it just made me crazy. It was too big.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t think the turkey would break the glass,” he continued, quieter now and looking away. “Who knew a turkey could break a window?”

Then he looked up at Raphie with such desperation that, despite the seriousness of the situation, Raphie had to fight a smile at the boy’s misfortune.

“I just meant to give them a fright. I knew they’d all be in there playing happy family.”

“Well, they’re definitely not anymore.”

The boy didn’t say anything but seemed much less smug and angry than when Raphie had first entered.

“A fifteen-pound turkey seems very big for just three people,” Raphie said, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, well, my dad’s a fat bastard, what can I say.”

Raphie decided he was wasting his time. Fed up, he stood to leave.

“Dad’s family still used to come for Christmas dinner every year,” the boy caved in, calling out to Raphie in an effort to keep him in the room. “But they decided not to come this year, either. The turkey was just too bloody big for the two of us,” he repeated, shaking his head. Dropping the bravado act, his tone changed. “When will my mam be here?”

Raphie shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably when you’ve learned your lesson.”

“But it’s Christmas Day.”

“As good a day as any to learn a lesson.”

“Lessons are for kids.”

Raphie smiled at that.

“What?” the boy spat defensively.

“Well, I learned one today.”

“Oh, I forgot to add retards to that, too.”

Raphie made his way to the door.

“So what lesson did you learn then?” the boy asked quickly, and Raphie could sense in his voice that he didn’t want to be left alone.

Raphie stopped and turned, feeling sad, looking sad.

“It must have been a pretty shit lesson,” the boy said.

“You’ll find that most lessons are.”

The Turkey Boy sat slumped over the table, his unzipped hoodie hanging off one shoulder, his small pink ears peeping out from his greasy shoulder-length hair, his cheeks covered in pimples, his eyes a crystal blue. He was only a child.

Raphie sighed. Surely he’d be forced into early retirement for telling this story. He walked back to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“Just for the record,” Raphie said, “you asked me to tell you this.”