He was forty-two but looked younger. The fact that he was as fit as he was played into it—only the white in his beard stubble really gave it away. His hair, too, was short. He was the only one who hadn’t put a sweatshirt or jacket on, owing to the proximity of the two heat sources—he was wearing a t-shirt that was form-fitting in a way that showed off his muscles. Pretty darn gross, given he was a dad, my dad, and he was supposed to dress his age. I would have insisted on clothes that hid any sign of muscle at all, really, had I been given a say.

He looked relaxed though. As relaxed as I’d seen him in a while, really, and I’d seen him passed out on the couch back at the apartment.

I was aware that my mom had seated herself so that two neighbors sat between her and my dad. Where my dad had dressed in a t-shirt and sports pants for the occasion, she had dressed up. Just a bit of lipstick, her hair short and styled, a ruffly sort of white blouse and pencil skirt. She’d kicked off her shoes earlier in the evening, leaving them beneath her chair.

I was aware of the distinction in how they’d dressed, too. In another time, before everything, there would have been more… connection, I supposed. Each influencing the other, until they matched more.

She was smiling. She folded one knee over the other, then a moment later was undoing the position, both feet on the porch again as she leaned forward, laughing at something someone had said.

I smiled.

The lights were on inside the house, too. The door was open, and people were scattered through the space between the stairs down to the porch, the back hallway, and the kitchen on the other side of the hallway. The room to the left of the hallway was dark. The neighbors kids, I presumed, teens to twenty-somethings. I saw a glimpse of Crystal stepping into the unlit room, tried to catch her eye with a raised hand as she looked toward the window, and failed.

I did get the attention of someone sitting next to my mom, though. She touched my mom’s arm and pointed.

I remained where I was, arms folded on the top of the wooden-slat fence, chin on my hands, while my mom approached.

“You’re hurt,” she said, touching my arm, where the road rash was.

“Scuffed up.”

“Did you get the other guy?” she asked. She reached out and touched my hair, fixing it by moving strands to one side.

“No,” I said. “But there were five of them.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I’m interested.”

“Not really,” I said. “Today—”

My breath caught.

“—Kind of not a good day,” I said.

I saw her expression change, even though the light source was behind her.