The shriek was one of complete, conscious fear. Their parents raced to the room. Matthew stood over his quivering, prostrate sister, plastic axe in hand, beaming.

Matthew's father boomed, "WHAT HAPPENED HERE?"

His sister choked out the words between sobs, "He, he hit me with his axe."

Matthew's mother checked her darling daughter for gashes and contusions. "She's okay," she assured everyone, "just shaken." A cuddle, a kiss away of tears, and the six year-old sidled to her bedroom to avoid the inevitably loud reprimand.

"MATTHEW," boomed his father, "WE-DO-NOT-HIT-PEOPLE-WITH-AXES!"

"No hit people with axe?" Matthew queried.

"No, we do not hit people with axes."

"Okay, hit couch with axe?" He looked hopefully at his father.

His father sighed. "Yes, you can hit the couch with the axe."

"Matthew fire-fighter," he said as he repeatedly walloped the couch.

Matthew's mother feared for the integrity of her sofa's fabric. "Come here Matthew," she said. He did, axe in his left hand. She lifted him onto her lap, took his right hand, moved it softly over her hair. "This," she said, "this is how people liked to be touched."

"Pat people, mama?"

"Yes, pat people."

"And cuddle people?"

His mother smiled. He was learning. Realistically, juvenile detention could be ten years away but he was capable of learning. They wouldn't have to worry about defence lawyers' fees eating into their non-existent retirement fund. She pulled him to her chest, "Yes, cuddle people."

Matthew drew back, smiled, raised the axe in his left hand, "Then hit people with axe, mama?"

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