I arrived home to find Meg in bed, either sleeping or pretending to sleep. I sat in the big chair in the corner and looked out the window, still dressed and wearing my boots, though I did trouble to brush my teeth so I wouldn’t smell like the cheap whisky that sadly had had no effect on me.

After about ten minutes, Meg said, “I’m not asleep.”

“I think we should tell Sarah everything,” I said.

Meg did not lift her head from her pillow. “I disagree.”

I knew she would. I knew she would not only because I understood the argument for not telling the child but also because I imagined that she would disagree with whichever way I chose to proceed. Whether it was simply a matter of playing devil’s advocate to promote helpful discussion or just contrariness, I didn’t know. And I really didn’t care.

“You think we should lie to her,” I said.

Meg sat up. “I think we simply don’t tell her.”

“Then what do we tell her?”

She lay back down. There would be no more discussion that night, and nothing had been decided. I didn’t want to lie to my daughter, but neither could I imagine telling her the truth. Of course, that was the stuff of it, not whether we would tell her the truth about her disease but could we. I thought to apologize to Meg, but instead I continued to sit and stare numbly out the window at the dark outline of the hills.

Duck Duck Goose. Sarah used to love that game. She never minded being the goose. It was always fun with a great many kids, she told me. I felt now as if I were playing the game all alone. The ducks, the goose, and It, chasing myself back to where I started and remaining It because I could not reach myself before I fell back into my seat.

While Meg slept, I looked up the return policy of the vendor who had sold me the shirt. Simple enough. I would mail back the garment with a note stating the problem, and they would send me another shirt or give me a refund. I wrote a brief letter explaining that the shirt was too tight, that I would need an extra-large, that the color didn’t matter. Under the flap of the collar, I hid a smaller piece of paper and on it I wrote, “¿Que puedo nacer para ayudar?” It all felt rather stupid, certainly pointless, but I was compelled to do it.

Nf3 b6

That morning, without having slept, I made breakfast and had it waiting for Meg and Sarah when they woke. Sarah would be going to school. We’d decided that the day before. They sat at the table and stared at my back while I flipped pancakes. “Let me ask you guys this,” I said. “Is there a difference between flapjacks and pancakes?”