“So does dinner every night,” Missy said. “Get moving, brainiac.”

Mary smiled her sad, proud smile. “You know, your dad’s not trying to be mean. He’s just… loud.”

“It forms a hundred-dollar electric bill,” George countered. “Your mother’s idea. You’re costing us a Swedish family’s monthly income.”

The morning sun sliced through the window of the Cooper family garage, illuminating dust motes that danced like static on an old television. Sheldon Cooper, age ten, sat at a repurposed desk, a can of soda— Diet Coke, the thinking man’s elixir —sweating beside a spiral notebook. His father, George Sr., stood over a humming dehumidifier, his meaty hand resting on its plastic shell.