I retreat to the living room, where Cassie’s watching Treehouse. He comes in holding a sheet of paper and, as usual, ignores Cassie. “Project for you, kiddo,” he says. “I had some free time at lunch and found this on the Internet—I want you to take about a third of the wood you’ve stacked and make a Shaker round. There’s a picture here, with a description.”

He grins at me, Mr. Charm, Have I got the lemon for you. “My father never liked trying anything new. But I’m an innovator. If this works, we’ll do all the wood in rounds next summer.”

You’d think by now Poker Face would be my middle name. The grin vanishes. “Is there a problem?”

I shake my head. I’m raining on his parade. Bad idea.

“Sounds neat,” I say.

“Drum up a little enthusiasm. Don’t they teach you to be open-minded at school?”

“Sure, we’ll give it a try.”

He tosses the paper on the coffee table. It skids to the floor. “You can start tonight,” he says. “Lots of daylight left.”

As I bend to pick up the paper, he takes the stairs two at a time. He only does that when he’s in a good mood.

A more useful innovation than a round woodpile would be a mood gauge for Floyd, a dial that swings from Terrific through Relatively Neutral to Extraordinarily Bad. Invent one for me. I’ll love you forever.

The wood in a Shaker round splays out from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Like the rays on the yellow suns Cassie used to draw.

Last spring the guidance counselor brought in a psychologist to talk about something called “boundaries.” Being able to say no is a skill we all need to learn. There are occasions in everyone’s life when it’s the only appropriate word. Discerning those occasions is also a skill. Saying no is one of the most empowering things you can do. Etc.

She had a decent smile and the girls were lapping it up.

No, Floyd, I won’t unstack and restack the woodpile.

Like, hello.

A Shaker round resembles a short fat cylinder with a cone-shaped top. Reminds me of those haystacks that French guy painted, over and over again, in the 1800’s. Monet. According to the biography I read, he was “irascible” with his children.

When I go outside and look at the woodpile, so neat and tidy, I realize I’d been thinking that maybe, just maybe, Floyd would say, Good job, kiddo. Or even, Not a bad job, kiddo.

It’s dusk by the time I dismantle a third of the woodpile and rearrange the pallets on the grass. I’ll get up early tomorrow, beat the heat.

2.1 [shaker up]