"Mrs. MacGowan? I'm afraid I've got some disappointing news about your son Malachi."
"He's not my son," I say for the thousandth time. I hand the phone to Ian and watch his face harden against the details of Mal's latest. A minute later he bangs down the receiver and mumbles something I'm glad I can't hear.
"What?" I ask.
"Pot," he says. "Three strikes, he's out."
I'm about to commiserate, but the phone rings again and Ian's on with Mal's mother, who, I gather from what's being said on our end, is throwing Malachi out too.
"You think throwing him out is going to keep drug sales to a dull...