Bills, checkbook, receipts, and parents are not at the kitchen table. Nana is in her room with the door closed. From the sound of it, she’s watching another one of her cooking shows, most likely dozing off in her recliner. I check the office, then knock on my parents’ bedroom door. They’re nowhere in the apartment.

The lobby is empty. When I get to the first-floor hallway leading to guest rooms, there’s a chill in the air. I call out, “Mom? Dad?” No response. I walk to the end, checking guest rooms. When I get to the last one, their muffled voices drift through a vent near the basement stairwell. I open the door and their voices grow louder.

“Can you fix it?” Mom asks.

“I’m doing what I can,” Dad says. “I’d hoped the pilot light had gone out, but that’s not the problem.”

In the furnace room, Dad’s kneeling in front of one of the boilers’ small doors. Mom’s crouching next to him, holding a high-powered flashlight aimed at the coils inside.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, startling Mom. The beam hits my eyes.

Dad scoots back and pushes up onto his feet. “The boiler for the first floor of the inn isn’t working,” he says, sounding stressed. “It’s not the pilot or the fuse.”

“Then what is it?” Mom asks.

Dad closes Grandpa’s toolbox. “It’s either the pump or circuit board. Neither one is a cheap fix.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mikayla, I’m not an expert. So no, I’m not sure of anything,” Dad snaps. His gaze shifts to my grandpa’s closed workshop door, and I wonder if Dad’s thinking what I’m thinking. If Grandpa were still alive, he’d know how to fix it. From the time my parents started dating their senior year, Grandpa took Dad under his wing and taught him about home repair—things my mom has little interest in. Dad grew up in foster care and knew nothing about his birth parents. He struggled, but my grandparents have always loved Dad like a son. His role models, he’s always said.

“I’ll call Zeke and ask him to take a look.” Dad wipes grime on his jeans.

“We can’t afford this now,” Mom says.

Dad cups her face. “Please don’t worry. I’ll see if I can barter my labor for his. One way or another, we’ll figure a way to work it out.”