When I reach home again, I shake my head. My youngest sister left her bike out, and one of the twins has a light on in her car. I make my way around the yard, setting things to rights: shutting the car door and locking it, pulling the bike into the garage. There’s a piece of chalk left on the porch, and I write GOOD MORNING for everyone to see on their way out the door tomorrow.

I take the stairs to my apartment, and after locking the door behind me and giving my Lab, Cash, a belly rub, I shower off the day, fall on top of my bed, and immediately fall asleep.

I wake to pounding at my front door and Cash losing his mind. With a groan, I clamber out of bed toward the source of the commotion. It’s not far. My apartment above the garage is barely a studio loft, with all the emphasis on studio.

I pull the door open to reveal my stepdad, Brian, his hand raised to knock again.

“Hey, Cash,” he says with far too much enthusiasm, acknowledging my frantic pup with a scratch behind both ears.

“You here for the dog, Bri?” I grumble, blinking against the brightness. “Because I didn’t need to get out of bed for that.”

“You’re still in bed, Micah? It’s after eight.”

I don’t bother responding. Instead, I walk away, leaving the door open for Brian to follow. I tug my mini fridge open and pour myself a mug of milk. They’re all I have: mugs, though I don’t drink coffee and don’t know how to work a coffeepot. This particular one reads: LET GO AND LET GOD. It’s my mom’s. Everything I have is theirs. I moved into this makeshift apartment a month ago and realized pretty quickly I own nothing.

Brian takes a seat on my new-to-me forty-dollar thrift store couch and continues to shower affection on Cash. Leaning one hip against my table, I watch him, taking in his usual Eddie Bauer–casual appearance. If Brian owns a pair of jeans, I haven’t seen them. He looks perpetually ready to teach marching band at the local high school. From the early hour and the private visit, I already know what this is about.

Or, rather, who.

“Your dad’s parole hearing is coming up.”

My fingers clench around the mug handle, and I feel it creak under pressure. I put it down on the table with a click.

“Good morning to you, too, Bri.”

My mild-mannered stepdad pins me with a single brow. I imagine it’s the one he uses on the clarinets when they fall out of step.