“Kind of.” He takes the book from me, and his hands are almost steady as he turns it over a few times. “Nope, still doesn’t interest me,” my dad says abruptly, handing the book back to me.

“What?” I laugh.

“Inquiries into life. Philosophy. I’m just not interested in thinking about living. I’d rather just live.” He sighs. “Get my keys, will you?”

“What keys?”

“For my bike. It’s been a long trip, and I want to go home now.”

I swallow, trying to process how we went from there to here. How do you know you were in the same world with someone? When it ends. “We are home, Dad,” I say.

“Come on, Cham, I’m not stupid.”

“Dad, we’re home. I promise.” He glares at me, and his distrust settles into my stomach like cement. I look around the room for proof. “See? There’s you and mom at your wedding.” I point to the framed photo on the wall. “And your service award when you retired from the post office back when snail mail was still called mail. And look at the flowers from Aunt Bridget. It’s all right here.” I give his hand a squeeze. “I’m here.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

I rest my forehead on his arm. “Me too.”

Sitting there in the warm, quiet room while my mom is finishing a shift at work, I want the days before the hospital back, when he was happier and moving around and eating. I know it’s a trap to think like that, though. During those days I wanted the days before the diagnosis back. With a sickness that gets sicker, it’s just another type of sickness to keep wishing for what came before.

I feel myself drifting off. My head droops toward my chest, then snaps up at the sound of my phone ringing. Abigail is talking before I’ve even said hello.

“Come get your nails done with me and Hilary!” she shouts over some pop music. It sounds like they’re driving, or having a dance party in the middle of the road. “We’re getting acrylics now so we get used to them before prom.”

“Always good to plan ahead,” I say.

“What?” my dad asks, opening his eyes and looking disoriented. I mute the phone to keep Abigail and Hilary out of our world.

“One sec,” I tell him. I step into the hallway, where it’s cooler and doesn’t smell like artificial strawberry. Hilary is singing in the background of the phone, but they sound farther away than the distance two phones can cross. I don’t know that they’ll be able to properly hear me, even when I press unmute.

“Cham?”

“Hey, sorry about that, I can’t today, gotta work on my… essay and stuff.” Why would you bring that up?

“Aw, do you want help?” Abigail asks.

“No, thanks. This is between Cham and her MacBook. Text you later,” I say, and hang up quickly, pushing the door to my dad’s room back open. “Sorry, Dad, I—”