Both vehicles are parked by the garage. I shouldn’t have stayed so long at Rolf’s—what’s wrong with me? My brain scurries for a cover story. Late supper and a visit to the toy department at Zellers is the best I can come up with.

Carrying Cassie inside nearly finishes me off. As I enter the kitchen, I stop in my tracks. Floyd’s playing his guitar in the living room. Johnny Cash, “Just the Other Side of Nowhere.” Remember the mood gauge? Johnny Cash means Floyd’s hovering at the high end of Terrific.

One Christmas I found a T-shirt with Johnny Cash’s picture on it, and gave it to him—he wore it Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and New Year’s Eve. He still sometimes wears it on weekends.

“Thanks, Son.” That’s what he said. Thanks, Son.

He’s tucked in the far corner of the living room, fingers plucking the strings, face relaxed. My breath escapes in a long sigh. Cassie doesn’t seem as heavy as she was a few minutes ago.

Once she’s in bed, I turn AC/DC on low and read about yaks and yurts.

3.1 [wheels and deals]

I’M UP early the next morning. Floyd’s downstairs, so I give the bathroom a swipe—one of my regular chores. Every morning he leaves wet towels on the floor, shaving cream gobbed on the sink, toothpaste stuck to the counter, yesterday’s boxers tossed in the direction of the hamper but not quite making it. At least he flushes.

We pass on the stairs. I can’t read his mood; I’ll wait until he’s gone before I wake Cassie.

Because Marigold will feed us our meals, I make do with cereal for breakfast. I’m crunching away, reading the Arctic book, when Floyd positions himself in the doorway. “I just checked the bathroom. You didn’t wipe the mirror and you left a couple of hairs in the tub.”

His hairs.

“Cleaning a bathroom isn’t neurosurgery, kiddo.”

“Soon as I finish eating, I’ll fix it.”

“How about you fix it right now.”

So I hoof it upstairs, spray the mirror with Windex and the tub with Fantastik, and the whole time he’s watching me.

“You might as well clean the toilet while you’re here,” he says, inspecting his fingernails.

Just once, I wish I had the guts to argue.

By the time I sit down at the kitchen table again, the cereal’s gone to mush. To top it off, Floyd is in no hurry to leave because he has a Chamber of Commerce meeting this evening and he’s gathering his notes.

It’s 9:10 before the Hummer backs out of the driveway. I wake Cassie and hustle her into her clothes. She fusses, whining for the blue T-shirt, not the pink one.

“Okay, okay,” I say, “just hurry up!”