The thought of cereal made me sick. Instead of flakes growing soggy with milk at the bottom of a bowl, I visualized coiled white Nullhuller intestines. I avoided the kitchen altogether, undid the ten door locks, and dove into the daylight, gulping down fresh air in the hopes that it would calm my stomach. My arms hung at my sides as if they each clutched an iron horseshoe. I sunk to the steps beneath the security camera, folded my arms across my knees, and wondered how long I could sit here before I ran back inside and double-checked each lock.

Dad came around the corner, surprising me. He was dressed for mowing in his work gloves, stained shirt, old pants, and steel-toed boots. Thankfully, the most ridiculous parts of his wardrobe—the goggles, face mask, and hair net—were still stashed, allowing me a rare opportunity to take him seriously. He hesitated as though equally surprised to see me, then took off his work gloves, stuck them in his back pocket, and took a seat next to me on the stairs.

His brother, I thought. His brother is alive.

It was something I couldn’t say, because how could it really be true? How could that lean and fearless kid from the underworld be related to this man of the hairless pate, collection of worry lines, and Band-Aid glasses?

“A bit late today,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Not you. Me. My trimmer was clogged. Just spent two hours hacking at it with a screwdriver. But we’re good to go. You want to come along? I’m doing Joseph A. Kearney Park. Good chance to put in some time piloting the big guy.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I figured.”

We sat in silence for a minute. I kept an eye on his profile as he watched life going on as usual. Little girls on bikes rode by ringing their bells. A teenager washed his car a few driveways down. Across the block, there was hammering—a new deck, maybe a tree house if some kids were lucky.

“I suppose we should have a talk,” Dad said.

Such a sentence would have terrified me had I not been wrung dry.

“About what?”

“Jimmy.” He gestured over his shoulder. “The kitchen.”

It was a lifetime ago that Tub and I had come upon the trolls in the kitchen. I tried to recall the damage, but there was too much: the obliterated ceiling fan, the scorched microwave, the piles of broken dishes.

“Dad,” I said. “I…”