By the time I make my way out of the gift shop, retrieve my bike, and start down the little path that leads to the Annex, I’ve created the worst-case scenario of spending the day with my dad. Which is that he talks about baseball all day. My dad is the kind of guy who loves to rehash the best moments of life, treating things that happened last year like they’re long-ago memories. And I’m not ready to talk about what a “great run” I had playing baseball. Because it just reminds me of how much further I could have gone. Of everything I’ve lost. And right now, I’m trying to focus on what I have to look forward to. I like my job at River Depot, and I’m excited about the art projects I’m planning for. When I don’t think about what I don’t have, things feel pretty good.

My dad is on the roof of the building when I get there. I stand at the bottom of the ladder and yell up to him. “I thought you hired someone for this.”

“Grab that hammer and come on up,” Dad says.

I find the hammer lying on the frame of a window, stick it in my pocket, and make my way up the ladder. Dad is perched on a two-by-four, hammering at a row of black shingles in front of him. “What happened to the roofing guys?” I ask, climbing carefully up the long narrow boards and taking my place on the right of my dad.

“Shoddy work,” Dad grumbles. “I’m not paying someone to do a job worse than I can do it myself.” He hammers in another piece. “So I’m doing it myself.”

“In your free time?” I joke, knowing my dad is already spending every minute of daylight here.

Dad grunts. “You remember how to do this?”

I helped Dad roof a small shed two years ago. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make me anything close to an expert—or qualified to do this on a building people will actually see—but I know Dad’s going to give me a step-by-step regardless of what I say, so I tell him yes and climb over the roof so I mirror him on the other side.