I slide out from under the covers and check the foot of my bed. Two bags. The red one is mine. The green-striped black one has the two books Atlas told me to read.

I jump at the light rap on the door and shove the bag and the books under the covers as it swings open.

“Hey.” Dad gives me a tense smile. “I heard you moving around and thought you could use this.” He holds out a tall green mug with outlines of paintbrushes pictured on it.

An apology.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the mug. “I didn’t set my alarm.”

“You needed sleep. We both did. It was a long week.” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his khaki pants. “Do you have big plans for today?”

He doesn’t want to talk about last night, which is probably for the best, since I’m not sure what either of us would say.

“I plan on showering and hanging around the house.” I think about the books buried under the mound of covers and Atlas’s instructions to stay inside. What would my father do if he saw the books? He always tried to get Mom to stop painting on canvas out of civic responsibility. Would he report the books, thinking he was doing the right thing? “What are you going to do?”

Dad shrugs. “I thought I might go into work for a few hours. My boss wants to meet on Monday morning. There are some problems. . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s no big deal. I just want to be prepared. And I was thinking that maybe tomorrow morning I’d go for a run.”

“A run?” Something he hasn’t done since Mom died. Something that once was normal.

“What? You think your old man can’t run anymore?” He rakes a hand through his still slightly damp hair and looks down at the floor. “Last night I really let you down. I let us both down.”

My stomach twists. “It’s fine, Dad.”

“No,” he says firmly, putting a hand to his temple—probably trying to calm the throbbing. “Nothing has been fine for a long time. We should be able to talk. You should feel like you can come to me about anything. You should never have to think you have to deal with things alone.”

No, I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I do.

When I don’t respond, Dad gives me a hint of a teasing smile. “Maybe you’d like to come with me when I go for my run?”

Those words, so like the ones he used to ask before Mom died, twine around my heart and tug.

“Have I ever wanted to come running with you?” I say, echoing the past routine.

“There’s always a first time. Maybe next weekend.” His smile widens.

“Yeah,” I answer. “And maybe pigs will fly.”

“They will if you draw them.” And for that second he’s the dad I used to have. The one I trusted with my heart. The one I want to trust with everything I’ve learned now.