The sky is darkening when I arrive. I’m late enough that I am not surprised to see that my father is already there and has brought dinner home—sweet-and-sour chicken and rice. A favorite of mine. An apology from him. My stomach growls, and I decide I have no choice but to accept it.

The food is good, even if the conversation is stilted and my father won’t meet my eyes. This is normal, but after yesterday, when we were able to talk and joke without the strangling tension between us, I notice it more. I think Dad does, too, because each time silence falls he fills the void with another question about my exams. I feign enthusiasm, even when he has run out of questions and starts repeating them, but eventually he realizes that neither of us is fooling anyone. He falls silent and we both pretend to focus on the food.

Dad pushes back his chair first. “I brought some work home. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

As he heads out I find my voice again. “Dad?”

He turns in the doorway and straightens his shoulders, trying to look upbeat, which makes me feel even worse. I want to tell him that it will all be okay and make us both believe it. But I can’t, so all I can say is, “Thanks for dinner.”

He sighs. “You bet, sweetheart.”

I hear his footsteps on the stairs, the sound of his door closing, and then my father pacing his room above me like a Bengal tiger searching for a way out of its cage.

And I hate it. I want this horrible loop we are trapped in to end. And there is only one way I can think of to do it.

I empty my plate into the garbage, then grab my bag and head out the door. The sun has set and the moon is fighting to shove its pale yellow beams through the thick, charcoal clouds. Wind whips the trees as I cross the patch of grass to the garage and roll out my bicycle. It is dusty from disuse over the winter, but the tires are still inflated.

The approaching storm and the darkness have chased most people inside, so I ride on the sidewalks instead of on the streets, avoiding traffic entirely. The wind whips against me, making it difficult to pedal, but I push my legs harder and ignore the burning of my muscles as the buildings grow taller. The quiet of the North Side disappears into the bustle of the city, which will last until the citywide street repair curfew begins.

I have hours before that, and even then I have nothing to worry about. The curfew applies only to motorized vehicles. People in our neighborhood walk their dogs or ride their bicycles or take out the garbage after curfew all the time.

My mother used to take walks after midnight several times a week. She said her best ideas came to her when the rest of the world around her was still. She said it allowed her to see beyond what was there into what could be. I wonder if in those final months she walked the same sidewalk that I now ride. I wish she had let me go with her when I asked instead of telling me I wasn’t ready.