“I just wanted to introduce myself,” Sam says. His arms are crossed, like he’s angry, but it’s really just to keep his hands warm. Sometimes he complains about his circulation, so he tucks his hands in his armpits and sort of leans forward, but it looks like he’s restless or uncomfortable.

We stand there for a minute. It’s a little awkward—my dad doesn’t really know what to say. “Sam taught me how to shoot,” I tell him.

“You mean, it’s my fault,” Sam says, laughing.

But my dad looks at him seriously. “I’m grateful to you. I haven’t always been . . . around to do these things.”

“Well, I know what that’s like.”

They shake hands, and on our way out, Sam calls after me. “See you on the court.”

All of these things, these little conversations, are things I go over in my head as I lie in bed.

My feet hurt when I finally get up—there’s still a little dried blood on one of my toes. I’m thirsty, too, and when I stand in the bathroom, trying to pee, it’s like I don’t have anything in me. But everything hurts in kind of a good way; it’s nice just to walk around barefoot in the house and feel like all of your muscles are doing their job—they’re getting stronger.

Around nine o’clock the front doorbell rings. I’m just finishing my second bowl of Great Grains, and Dad calls out, “Hey, anyone home?” Granma never locks the door after picking up the newspaper from the front yard.

When he comes in the kitchen, he’s wearing chinos and canvas sneakers; he’s got a short-sleeved collared shirt on. “Morning, Dorothy,” he says. That’s Granma’s name, but it’s funny to hear him say it—like, he’s being polite, but it’s a kind of politeness where you can tell people have known each other for a long time. “Hey, Jenny,” he says, because Mom just walked in.

She’s wearing a faded yellow dress, which she bought secondhand at a Mexican market in town, and leather sandals that go halfway up her ankles. Her hair smells nice—she just got out of the shower, and somehow when she walks in you can smell soap scent all over the kitchen. She looks good. She’s still got a summer tan, because the sun never seems to go away in Texas; and her hair’s a little longer than it used to be in New York; and she still goes swimming once a week, and you can see the muscles in her arms.

“Morning, Spencer,” she says. And there’s that same politeness in her voice—people being nice to each other who know each other really well, but maybe haven’t always been so polite but are trying now. “What do you boys have planned for today?”

“Did you manage to get a bike, Dad?”

And he looks at me, smiling; there’s sweat on his forehead. “That’s the thing about staying at ridiculously expensive hotels. You tell them you need something, and they sort it out.”