“Oh,” I said, unsure if there was any right thing I could say in this moment that would let me off the hook. I was also, legitimately, a little surprised. I’d thought it was Wednesday morning—the last thing I remember being sometime midday on Tuesday—but glancing at the sports section of the newspaper that was on the counter told me it’s currently Thursday.

“Oh?” my dad asked, finally looking up at me, his eyes wide. I turned to pour myself a cup of coffee. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, not really sounding it. “I’m not going to apologize for a medical condition I have.”

I really thought I’d had him there. He, more than anyone else, should understand that different expectations and accommodations need to be made for people like us that have something we’re battling against. And maybe he would have given me a break if that was what was going on. But, like always, he saw through my bullshit.

“You’re not falling asleep at the drop of a hat anymore,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’re choosing it. We know you are. You’re choosing to sleep through everything, to spend all your time in that other place.”

I hadn’t expected that. He said it so coldly, clinically, and my mind instantly jumped to interventions that I’d seen on TV shows. But Aaron and my mom weren’t there, there was no banner hung over the kitchen table, just me and my dad and slightly burnt coffee, staring each other down.

“And why shouldn’t I?” I asked.

“Because that’s now how this is supposed to work, Rose,” he said.

“Don’t tell me how my own ability works,” I said, taking a step toward him. “I know what I’m doing. I have perfect control over it—”

He scoffed, closing the newspaper.

“It’s true!” I insisted. “I can do whatever I want in there!”

“Maybe you don’t need better control over your ability itself,” he said, “but over how you use your ability.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He sighed and stood up, coming to stand directly in front of me, his most serious Dad face on.

“I think it’d be good for you to do another stay at the AM,” he said.

“What??” I yelped.

“Rose—”

“No, no,” I shouted, shaking my head. “I don’t need to go back there!”

Why, oh why, did I shout at him? What kind of unrepentant monster shouts at their sick father when all he’s trying to do is help?