By 3:43 a.m., Murdock and I have made our way halfway around the park near my father’s house. It’s not quite as sweltering as it was the previous week, but I’m still drenched in sweat. It’s the first time I’ve run the loop in close to nine years, and it feels both eerie and satisfying at the same time, like being able to feel your way to the bathroom during a blackout.

I let Murdock off his leash. He is marginally well-behaved — at least, compared to Lassie, who is constantly running off to try to weasel his way into, well, in one case, an actual weasel — and when he scampers ahead, he waits for me to catch up, then takes off again.

When we are on the final straightaway that leads to my father’s cul-de-sac, my cell phone chirps.

I pull it out.

I synced my Facebook account to my cell before I left, and my phone shows I have a new message.

The old coot must be up.

Probably playing Candy Crush like Ingrid’s father.

His message is nearly as simple as mine.

“Tomorrow,” it says, followed by an address.

::::

The moment I walk through the door, I ask my dad if he’ll do it.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation.

I tell him the address and he plots it into his phone. He says it will take two hours.

In my dad’s younger days, if we went on a trip, he would carry me to the car, but after seven slipped discs and soon-to-be osteoporosis, the days of transporting his one-hundred-and-sixty-pound son were over.

That means I would have to sleep in the car tonight.

I look at my cell.

3:56 a.m.

I run to my room and take a minute long shower, then throw on sweats and a tee, then grab jeans to change into when I wake up.

With a minute to spare, I open the door to the garage.

Lassie is sitting on the hood of my father’s Lincoln, swatting at the metal hood ornament, which springs backward and forward.

I laugh and say, “Dude, what are you doing?”

Meow.

“This relaxes you?”

Meow.

“Are you sure it isn’t just because its shiny and it springs around?”

Meow.

“A poor man’s jingle ball? Don’t you mean a poor cat’s jingle ball?”

Meow.

“Maybe if you start doing some chores, I’ll give you an allowance.”

This could have gone forever, but I only have a few seconds left in my day. I open the door, recline the passenger seat, and climb in. Lassie hops off the hood of the car and settles into my lap.

Meow.

“You’ll start emptying the dishwasher?”

Meow.

“How exactly are you going to mow the lawn?”