Sociopath

“Peek-a-boo,” I say, leaning over your tablet. You’re in bed, and you smile—that sweet, innocent smile.

“Peek-a-boo,” I say again, and this time, you swing the tablet up with all your strength and smash me in the lip. Jesus, it hurts.

“Zoey, good lord. That hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

Nice, the sociopath stage—when does this end?