my dad says as he comes up the staircase. Ours is an older house, the bottom lived in by an Asian couple that refuses to move from the neighborhood. That’s what my mom tells me when I ask why they’re different from everyone else. I see people like them when my dad takes me to Chinatown. They’re very nice. “I don’t want to go to bed.” I pout. It’s cold outside . . . again. I feel the chill as it whistles up the stairwell from the open door below. I can’t see very well because the lightbulb is out again. I smell my dad’s leather coat before he’s taken two steps. It’s my favorite. Sometimes he lets me wear it. It’s too big for me, but I don’t care. My mom and dad laugh when I put it on. He stops, doesn’t take another step. I wonder what’s wrong. Is my dad hurt? “Go give your mom a kiss; then go to bed,” he urges. I ignore what he says and run to him instead. I almost fall because I can’t see the big stairs. Then I stop. In the faint light from the street, I see he’s not alone. I don’t want to go to bed. My body shook.
