“You were out late last night,” says Mom, patting her eyes on her cuff and pouring coffee into her mug.

“Yeah. You didn’t wait up for me, did you?”

“Oh, I went to bed around midnight. I just noticed that you weren’t home yet. I assumed you’d stayed late at the Crow’s Nest.”

I had stayed late at the Crow’s Nest. And then I’d spent another hour or two driving around town, long after all the businesses were locked and the houses had switched out their lights.

“Yeah,” I say.

“How did it go last night?”

“Fine.”

Fine. Except that my band—my best friends, the guys I’ve spent every day with for the past four years, musicians who can back me even when I’m playing some song I’ve never played before—is blown to shrapnel.

But I’m not going to think about that.

I can’t. I can’t even think.

“Whoa-ho,” says Dad, shuffling into the kitchen. He’s already dressed in his jeans and button-up plaid shirt. I don’t think I’ve seen him wearing anything else in years, not early in the morning, not late at night, not even on the days when he’s got no work to get dressed for. He probably showers in jeans and a button-up plaid shirt. “What’s going on out here? Did we hire a chef?”

Mom pours Dad a cup of coffee. “Come and sit.” She pats his usual spot at the table. “We’ll all eat the very same thing at the very same time!”

Mom sets out the fake maple syrup and the fake orange juice, and I put down the plate of French toast.

We all dig in.

“Not bad,” says Dad, nodding at me over a forkful. “I think you’ve got a backup career here, if the guitar thing doesn’t work out.”

This isn’t really a compliment. And I know Dad doesn’t really mean it as one.

Mom makes a little tutting sound. “So, Anders,” she says brightly. “We need to talk about your graduation party.”

I swallow a mouthful. “We do?”

“Yes, we do. We need to talk about when you want to have it, and what you’d like to do, and how many people you want to invite, and if you want Last Things to play. . . .”

My chest gets tighter with each word. “I don’t know.”

“We could set things up in the garage for the band. Couldn’t we, Brian?”

Dad nods slowly. I can tell that he’s mentally moving his truck and parking it somewhere else, putting his power tools in the basement, shunting the long-dead boat motor out of sight. “Sure,” he says.

“I think that would be perfect. There are relatives who haven’t heard you play in ages. I’m sure they’d love to hear how far you’ve come. They’ll be blown away.”

I shrug with one shoulder. I’m still starving, but the French toast feels like a gooey lump in my mouth.

“We could grill out,” Mom goes on. “Brats. Burgers.” Her face is still smiling, but now there’s a little question in her eyes. A little worry. “We could swing that. Right?” She sends a silent message to my dad.