“Nothing, really. I just hope you’re not getting too attached to her. I know she seems glamorous, winning that award and everything. But she’s a troubled soul, Penn. I sense it. She’s seen a lot more of the world than you. And I just don’t want—”

“Mom, I’m forty-five. You don’t need to run interference for me.”

In the dim light spilling from the door, I see the trace of a smile, but it quickly vanishes. “I know. But I also don’t want Annie to feel uncomfortable in her own house.”

When I switch on the bedside light, Mom shields her eyes from the sudden brightness. “Do you think she does?” I ask. “Feel uncomfortable.”

“Well, she’s certainly having a tough time right now. And I know Mia senses something between you and Serenity.”

I chuckle at this. “I think Mia’s got a little crush on me, Mom.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s working wonders with Annie, and she’s whip-smart. And you’re a single man with a good—”

“Mom, this isn’t a Jane Austen novel. She’s only twenty years old.”

At this, my mother actually says, “Pshaw,” or something similar. “Twenty-year-olds today know more about life than I knew at thirty. Most girls these days are on the pill by fifteen. Girls from good families, even.”

The subtext of this is painfully clear: A twenty-year-old white girl is a more suitable choice than a thirty-five-year-old black woman.

“It’s bedtime, Mom.”

“All right. I don’t have to be told twice.”

She gets up with a soft groan, and just as I think she’s about to close the door, she says, “Will you promise me something, Penn?”

I sigh. “Sure.”

“Don’t give up on your father.”

Jesus. “I won’t, Mom.”

“I know this is hard. It is for me, too. But Tom has always stood by us. He’s always taken care of us. Now we have to take care of him.”

“I understand,” I tell her, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice. “But it would be a lot easier if he would help.”

There’s a long silence. Then she says, “You can do it, son. I know you can.”

Desperate to change the subject, I ask if she’s had any more migraine or stroke symptoms.

“Not one,” she assures me. “Now that the battle’s been joined, I think I’m going to be fine. It’s the waiting that kills me.”

There’s a lot more waiting to come. “I’ll see you in the morning, when we board the tank.”

“Good night, Penn.”

The door creaks, and the bar of light vanishes.