“I’m sorry Mom bothered you,” he says as I hand him an aspirin.

“You’re not bothering me.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Come on. You know I don’t mind.” I get him a glass of water for the aspirin.

“Thanks.” He swallows. “But you don’t have to stay here, Cham. I’m not a baby.”

He takes one more sip, and I put the glass down on the counter more loudly than I mean to. “Dad, you know you can’t stay here by yourself.”

“Mom said to think of it as father-daughter time.”

“It’ll be nice,” I agree, but I’m thinking about Gene and Abigail and Hilary and how this is one of those nights that’s ours, that freshmen and sophomores and juniors know about and wait for, and now it’s happening to me and I’m not there. The refrigerator makes some exasperated throat-clearing noise and I lean against it, looking at my dad. His attention has flickered toward the window again. Whatever universe he’s glimpsing when he slips through that pane of glass, no one else is privy to it.

“So what should we do?” I ask, breaking the silence and looking around the house. There’s a big bookshelf next to the TV, and in the corner of the living room the wooden chessboard is collecting dust mites. The game got too complicated for him around this time last year, but we could try checkers.

“Let’s just relax.” My dad wheels over to the light switch and flicks it a couple of times. Nervous fiddling with things is the most annoying part of this disease; just ask any bad daughter anywhere. “You can heat up some of the soup on the stove, and we’ll eat together and talk. Mom and I just used the restroom, so you won’t have to do that.”

Thank god.

He wheels toward the dining room table and calls over his shoulder, “Afterward I can drive you to your friend’s house.”

I don’t bother reminding him that he doesn’t drive anymore. I take out my phone to text Abigail, but what am I supposed to say? My dad’s situation hasn’t exactly come up since we’ve been friends—not the wheelchair, not the sickness, nothing—and I’m not about to try explaining it with a bunch of emojis. What excuse is good enough that I missed her in Senior Show? The reddish-orange walls are coming for me, and the chandelier and the small circular bulbs embedded in the ceiling. I’ve never been in such a closed space.

Second set of begrudging texts sent to Gene:

Taking longer than expected but be there ASAP C

I don’t wait for Gene to respond. I’d rather not know what’s going on at school. As long as I don’t see my phone, there’s no proof I’m missing something.

“I’m sorry you had to come home,” Dad says quietly. “I’m so useless with this knee.”

“You’re not useless.” On the top of the bookshelf, there’s a picture of him on his motorcycle. I take in this younger version of him: tight jeans (yikes), no helmet, same smile. You’re still that person, I realize, looking over at him, the age showing by his eyes and the disease showing, well, everywhere.