The wife on Ambien hails Uber after Uber. The cars stream toward us like a series of sharks. It’s four A.M. Drivers from many countries gather on the corner, fling curses at our window, break out the booze, promise each other their children in marriage.

The wife on Ambien forgets about our children, Danica, eleven, and Morris, five. We named them after a race-car driver and a cat. It was her idea. She had it on Ambien. I get home from work after nine and see them attacking each other with belts while she sleeps, all the cushions and pillows piled in the center of the living room. Don’t wreck our fort, Daddy, Morris says. That’s more like a tower, I say. Then don’t wreck our tower, Danica says. What about homework? I ask. Homework’s for losers, she says. Losers like you, says Morris. Honey, I call, but the wife on Ambien is sawing logs.