Mike was 18 years old, too old to be eating cold breakfast cereal, he thought, but his mother didn’t feel like cooking him oatmeal this morning. Instead, she was lazing in bed, putting off getting up until she absolutely had to. He was just drinking down the last of the milk when both of his twin sisters walked in, still in their robes. “Good morning, Mike.” they said, in unison. They did that often, speaking the same wor...