“I figured you’d have it memorized.” There’s more shuffling. “Hey, hold on. It’s on Netflix. You should watch it with me.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the big fan.” I grab my laptop from my nightstand drawer. “Wait, is this what you’ve been doing since rehearsal ended?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “I watched Grease, but I wasn’t gonna tell you about that because I hated it.”

“How?” I lug the laptop onto my lap and fish for my earbuds. “Grease is a classic.”

“I regret watching it. Everyone looked forty. It was depressing.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I say, logging on to Netflix. “Okay, if we’re gonna do this, we have to make a deal. You have to stay on the phone the entire time. Got it?”

“Totally,” he says. “At the count of three. One, two—”

“Three.” I tap play, and I can hear the movie starting on the other end. It’s like a disjointed robot. “If you need me to explain anything, just let me know.”

“Please,” he scoffs. “The student is becoming the master.”

“You wish.”

When I blink my eyes open, the light that was coming from the windows is long gone. I can’t hear anything except the faint sound of the coffee machine from downstairs. My laptop is still on my lap, warm like a blanket. The movie is over, the screen black. An earbud is still in my ear, but I can’t find my phone.

I roll over. The clock on my nightstand tells me that it’s five in the morning. Five. I don’t wake up that early on school days. Five means it’s Sunday, and I’ve spoiled a perfectly good morning for sleeping in. Ugh.

“Miles?”

He hasn’t said anything in a while. At least, that’s what I think. I could be dreaming. I definitely lost track of time, since I managed to doze off. I fumble around for my phone before holding it to my ear. There’s the sound of soft breathing on the other end. My chest tightens at the thought of him sitting up in bed, like me, with a computer on his lap. I press the end call button.

I’ll never get back to sleep now, so I pad down the steps, following the dim glow of a lamp. It’s hard to tell which one of my parents could be up this early, because as far as I know, they both live for early mornings. It’s disgusting.

Pops is the one at the kitchen counter, reading the newspaper and sipping from a cup that reads WHITE TEARS. He smiles as I walk in.

“Hey, Poppa,” I say, sliding next to him. “What’s up with you?”

“I was having trouble sleeping,” he says. “Want a cup?”