“Jeez, Dad,” I say, springing up in the bed so fast that our foreheads clunk like coconuts and I fall right back again. He laughs, rubbing his head. He laughs. I squint at my clock in the darkness. It is neither late enough nor early enough to be seeing him. “Is it breakfast time? How did I not wake up if you were coming home? How did I not know—” “Shush,” he says, reaching out and patting me on the chest. His big paw is radiating heat. “Shush, shush. You’re all right. I’m home early. Boss sent me home early. You want a baklava?” “No. Why did he send you home? Are you all right?” “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just this knee of mine. You know how I hurt it. It’s fine. It’s just acting up a little, swelling up a little. Big Jim thought I should take it home to rest. That’s all.” That’s a relief to me. Relief that I have not lost my sense of when Dad’s shift is ending and breakfast time is coming. And in the firefighter game, a gimpy knee is a pretty benign thing to get you sent home.
