Derek wins?

Derek narrowed his eyes. This was it. He felt it: his moment of truth, of glory. He gripped the peg, steeling his nerves. “B-8,” he said.

Alma slumped, deflated. “Christ. That’s it,” she said. She looked out the window and the squirrels in the trees looked defeated too. A long line of losers, stretching back through the history of walnuts and oaks and hibernations. “You sunk my battleship,” she muttered.

Derek stood, triumphant, and slapped Alma in the face, as hard as he could. She took the blow in silence.

“That’s for Louie,” he said, and kicked the table over, spilling pegs and plastic ships everywhere. “This is for all the Louies." Later, much later, years even, when he thought about it, the scene had changed; he recalled Alma shaking with anger, red, whistling like a tea kettle.