“It’s not even that late,” he protests.

“It’s a school night. Besides, if you truly can’t find anything to do, you might as well go to sleep.”

He seems to be debating whether or not to argue but apparently decides against it. “Okay.” Max starts heading for the door, then turns and says, “Did you have fun tonight?”

My shoulders sag, as if someone just placed sandbags on them.

“No,” I say.

“Me either.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Max isn’t quite asleep but will be soon. As I kiss him on his head before turning off his light, I briefly wonder what it is he thinks about in these moments, these minutes of stillness under the blankets, in the dark, before sleep takes over. Does he think about his father? Is he scared? Does he repeat mantras in his head like I do, something like I want to go home? I wonder this but do not ask, because I don’t want him to say something that’ll make me feel even guiltier. I can’t handle that, not tonight.

Downstairs, I pass the kitchen, where the clock above the sink reads just past nine. I never did have dinner.

I continue down the dark hallway of the main level toward a faint glow. My father’s study. Before I even enter, I can smell the trace of cigar smoke, which over the years has soaked into every surface of the room. I pass through the open doorway and find him sitting in one of two overstuffed leather chairs. He’s not smoking, but he is drinking, a cocktail glass with two fingers of whiskey, neat, in his right hand. He’s not on his phone. He’s not reading his Wall Street Journal or a book. He’s just sitting there in the silence, a solemn look on his face, as if wondering what the point of everything is anyway.

He looks over to me as I enter.

“Rosie,” he says.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Come join me.” He points to the other chair, which hasn’t had a regular occupant as long as I can remember. My father always sits in his favorite chair, and once in a while, someone’s weight might bend the cushion of the chair next to it. But mostly, I’m guessing, my father sits alone.

“Okay,” I say.

As I sit, he stands, walks over, and pours me the same drink as his, not asking if I want or even like whiskey. Fortunately, the answer to both these unasked questions is yes. I take the offered glass and sip. It burns deliciously, putting to shame the light tingle of the wine.

I clear my throat, barely suppressing a cough. “You know,” I say, “your whiskey was the first alcohol I ever tasted.”

He looks over to me without moving his head. His eyes have a look of playfulness that doesn’t match the rest of his demeanor. “That so?”

“I was thirteen. Cora and I snuck some.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was the worst thing I’d ever tasted.”