I intend to make it up to him one day. It’s not that I owe him that. John Summerlin would be the first to argue I don’t. It’s that he deserves it. He deserves to have fewer worries for all the burdens he’s carried.

Opening the back door, he says, “Hope you’re hungry for burgers. I’ve already got them on the grill. Grab a soda and seat out here and tell me about your week.”

I follow him out onto the cracked concrete patio, digging through the cooler he stocks for us—beer for him, soda for me. “I’m old enough to have a beer, you know?”

“I know.” He doesn’t say why he only ever offers me soda, but I already know. He wants to keep me young, his little girl, for as long as he can. Not that he cares if I drink since I’m twenty-one, but I’ll oblige because it makes him happy. I pop the top on a Sprite and sit in a plastic Adirondack chair I bought him for his birthday a few months ago. After almost falling through a canvas chair he’d left out in the weather for ten years, the upgrade is nice.

He returns from the garage empty-handed, grabs a can of beer, and sits in the matching chair. “Tell me about your week.”

“It’s boring,” I reply, leaning my head back on the chair.

“Not to me.”

I grin because I have the best dad. “Normal week of classes, but I was assigned a paper on Monday. It took me an hour of work every night to get it turned in on time on Friday.”

“How’d you do?”

“We haven’t received our grades yet, but I think I did well.”

“That’s good. You mentioned last week that you had two shifts this week . . .” He leaves the inquiry open-ended for me to fill in.

So I do. “Wednesday was serving the psychology department. I guess it’s an annual dinner they do to talk about how their goals are being met so far after the first month of school. It was easy. Just me and Larry, but the money was good because they left a big tip.”

“That’s good. You socking it away?

“No, but I put it toward paying rent for next month, though.”

He raises his can. “Getting ahead. That’s my girl.”

Hoping to distract him, I get up and open the grill. “These are looking good. I’ll get the veggies ready to go.”

“Already done,” he says, not making a move. “Sometimes dinner with you passes too fast, so I did what you taught me and prepped ahead.”

Grinning, I reply, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

He chuckles but gets right back on the track I was trying to detour. “And the other shift?”

I hesitate, twisting the metal top of the can around. “It was actually out at The Pointe Estates.” I glance up to see his eyes stuck to his well-loved Carhartt work boots.