But he will never write that book. So I will never orbit the moon with my dad, or call him from the International Space Station wearing a NASA flak suit. When I’m on a rocket filled with over seventy-six thousand gallons of fuel and thinking about the Challenger blowing up, he won’t be down on Earth, hoping I make it into orbit in one piece.

“Visibility is good tonight, Dad,” I say.

I’m grateful Uncle Tony “accidentally” broke the streetlamp right in front after we moved in. He reported this accident to me while handing me the box labeled MAE’S TELESCOPE.

• Mars—perfect visibility
• Venus—fairly good visibility
• Saturn—average
• Uranus—average
• Mercury, Jupiter, and Neptune—slightly difficult to see
• Mom and Dad—zero visibility

Tonight, all I want to do is look at the moon.

I zoom in on the craters. Imagine the moon mansions I would build on them. This is something Dad and I would do. Moon mansions. Dad’s had a Zen rock garden in the back, the most intricate and beautiful Zen garden ever, made with moon rocks and moon sand.

Mom said she didn’t want a mansion, just a wide expanse where she could do yoga, so I always made sure to have a nicely tended patch for her. I zoom in on a plain beside one of the craters, half expecting Mom to be up there, doing sun salutations. Or would they be moon salutations?

I can’t believe they threw her body in a pit.

Down below, I hear laughter and shouts. The sidewalks are full of goblins and witches and maybe some astronauts. We had plans to hand out candy and line the driveway with jack-o’-lanterns, but our porch light is off and the pumpkins are in the trash. Tomorrow is the Day of the Dead, and I suppose it’s fitting, getting this call when we did. In Mexico, they go to their loved ones’ graves and light candles. Gram will go to her church in Florida and light candles in front of saints. Even though Dad was an atheist, I bet he would like that a little. If only because it probably makes Gram feel better.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Uncle Tony stands behind me, his eyes heavy. He’s wearing his favorite Red Sox jacket and carrying a blanket and a thermos.

“Figured you’d be a little chilly up here,” he says.

I reach for the blanket, throw it over my shoulders. “Thanks.”

“Now, this hot chocolate has some peppermint schnapps in it,” he says. “Don’t tell your dad.”

I smile. “You were Dad’s favorite. In the family.”