“Of course.” Dad’s voice was soft. “Thank you.”

Gulager held our eyes for a moment longer as if showing his willingness to listen if there was something else we wanted to say. But one thing we Sturgeses were good at was keeping our mouths shut. Gulager nodded briskly enough that his boyish wig shimmied, snapped shut his report book, and turned away, donning his hat. The security camera tracked him on his way to the cruiser.

Dad closed the door and began the safety song of the ten different locks, though this rendition was more maudlin than I’d ever heard it: Click. Rattle. Zing. Rattle. Clack-clack-clack. Thunk. Crunch. Whisk. Rattle-rattle. I held my breath for the final note, the conclusive thud. But Dad’s hand had quit working. His thumb slid off the deadbolt and dangled at his side.

When he faced me, his lips were quivering.

“I have my reasons, Jimmy. I know it seems unfair. All I’m asking is that you honor my request. Be home before dark. Son? Please? Be home before dark?”

I felt anger. I felt frustration. I felt pity. All were emotions I didn’t like feeling about my dad. He was losing it. Year by year, day by day, he was getting worse, and it reminded me too much of myself in the school parking lot that afternoon, jumping at shadows and hallucinating monsters.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “I just don’t get why.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the salt of his welling tears.

“Because it is not safe.” His jaw shook; the teeth rattled. “I’ve lost too much already, and I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. And it won’t, not on my watch.”

I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me. It wasn’t the cheekbone bruise from my trash compacting or the blisters on my hands from the gymnasium rope or the scuffed knees from the parking lot chase. As always he was distracted by his own murky memories of the older brother who once called him “Jimbo.” He turned, punched complicated codes into all three control panels and waited for the varied automated responses: Residence Secured. Total Lockdown Achieved. Safety Mode 3-A Initiated. He flicked a switch and nighttime floodlights bathed the front and back yards. Neighbor dogs to both sides of our house howled their nightly disapproval.

Dad moved down the hall in his slippers, not making a sound. He entered his bedroom, closed the door, and after thirty seconds I heard the soft sounds of a familiar song playing from his old speakers, a syrupy tune I’d been hearing all of my life, some song by an oldies group called Don and Juan.

“I stood on this corner, / Waiting for you to come along, / So my heart could feel satisfi-i-i-ied.…”