Hands off the chair, please.

Ears work great, thanks.

Ask me my order, not them.

When I’m done, I post pictures, make new listings, and put the bags up for sale. I feel a little nervous, like I’m doing something I shouldn’t—even though everything I wrote on them is just plain truth.

Dad drags his tail inside around eight thirty, looking exhausted. “No worries,” I tell him, before he can apologize. “I saved some dinner.” I get busy fixing a plate, mentally rehearsing everything I’m going to tell him about Dawn.

But Dad doesn’t want the BLT and tomato soup I give him. He flops into his chair, flips on the television, and then flips it right back off.

“How was school?” he asks.

I’m not fooled by his attempts to act chill. I may still be annoyed with him, but I know when something’s off.

I look at him, eyebrows up, until he caves.

“Failed my test,” he admits. “Crash and burn.”

Oh man. “That stinks.” I know how hard he studied.

I go over and punch him on the arm. “You’ll get the next one, right?”

My pep talk doesn’t pep Dad up. He shakes his head, looking dazed. “Don’t know what happened. It was like I hadn’t studied a bit. Could’ve been in Klingon.”

Dad looks so miserable—drastic action is clearly needed. I whip around the kitchen and create two root beer floats topped with rainbow sprinkles and hot cocoa powder. I throw some cinnamon and nutmeg on, add a bit of pepper for good measure, and bring him one. Dad manages a tiny grin.

“Your mom would be proud.” He sips it and makes a thinking face. “Not bad.”

When I was tiny, I’d help Mom cook, and she’d let me figure out what tasted good by putting out all the spice bottles and letting me choose which ones we’d have on our dinner. This meant we’d sometimes have chicken with nutmeg and tapioca … or milkshakes with pepper. Dad and Mom were good sports about eating whatever random combos I came up with.

This float is pretty good, even with the pepper, and I’m glad it made Dad smile. This is when I should tell him about Dawn. He might even find it funny—in a twisted way—and I know he’d see my point.

Then I see he’s already half dozed off right there in his chair. Those little squint lines around his eyes look sharper in the TV’s glow. I hesitate, my hand halfway out to poke his arm.

I sigh and shift gears. Instead of shaking Dad awake, I get a blanket from the sofa—the soft, purple one that was Mom’s favorite—and cover him up. I get his phone from the coffee table, make sure the alarm’s set, and turn off the TV. As much as I’m dying to shake my new shadow, tonight’s not the best night to tell Dad about Dawn. He’s got enough to worry about right now.

I’ll have to double down on dealing with her myself for now. Piece of cake, right?