“So, bottom line,” Mom cut in, “is it safe to be here?”

He stared down at his plate. “You have nothing to worry about.”

I chewed my pancakes slowly, taking this all in while trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going—and to knock Dad off of autopilot. He hadn’t even asked me about my time at the camp or how my injuries were healing. Maybe he was just tired.

“Who’s Ishango?” Charlie chirped up.

Dad gave a start and caught himself—I saw it. It was as if he’d willed his face to turn to stone. Charlie was oblivious, jamming a huge pancake wedge into his mouth.

“Where did you hear that name?” Dad asked quietly.

“You,” Charlie said with his mouth full. “When you were on your walkie-talkie.”

“Is that who you’re working with?” I asked Dad, trying to give him an out. I knew he was dealing with lots of classified information that he couldn’t share with us.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s who I’m working with. I can’t say much about it.”

“Ishango,” Charlie repeated, and I swear Dad gave another start. “Ish-AN-go.”

“That’s enough, Charlie,” Dad said.

“Sounds like he’s from AF-rica!” Charlie added.

Dad gave a mirthless smile. “In a way.” He stood. “I have to go. My furlough was only for the morning.”

Charlie hurled himself into Dad’s arms but was rewarded with only a limp pat on his head. I bristled—after almost a year away from us, why wasn’t he being nicer to Charlie? Or to Mom? Or to me, for that matter? He was so formal.

“You’re leaving?” Mom asked.

“Afraid so,” Dad said, not breaking his stride out of the kitchen. “Good-bye,” he called out, not looking back as he opened the front door and shut it behind him. Mom stood stock-still in the kitchen, the spatula in her hand. He hadn’t kissed her good-bye or given any of us a farewell hug. I took the spatula from her and turned on the faucet to start the dishes.

“Wasn’t it nice to see Dad, Charlie?” I asked over my shoulder.

“He looked weird,” Charlie said. “I miss his beard. It made him funner.”

“Me too,” I said. “I think we all miss his beard.”

Mom still was standing there, a bit of liquid rimming her eyes. I put my lips up to her ear and muttered, “I think some of the plant’s coolant might have escaped up Dad’s ass.”

She did a dry spit take and whipped her head toward me, trying to look annoyed—one doesn’t say such things about one’s father—but unable to hide a softening around her eyes. “You can get away with that just this once,” she said, and kissed my cheek.

As I turned up the water and ran the brush over each plate’s sticky surface, I pondered this change in my father. Maybe it was simple: he was overworked, exhausted, stressed out from containing a situation that might be even more dangerous than he’d let on.