I brought him a cup of black coffee. He was in his pajamas. “Thanks, kiddo,” he said, taking the mug. “You’re not going to work today, Dad?” “Nope. Taking the day off. Mental health day.” I nodded. He could see I was worried. “It’s a good thing. I should have done it long ago. I need some time off.” Mom was going to completely freak out. “Go on. You better get ready for school.” “Dad,” I ventured. “You had Mr. Malloy for English, right?” He looked at me with no expression. Or rather, he looked at me, removing any trace of expression from his face. On purpose. Which wasn’t the same thing at all. “I did,” he said. “Why do you ask?” “He’s one of my favorite teachers,” I said. This was a lie. And Dad knew it. What I meant was: Please don’t hurt Mr. Malloy, if you’re the one behind the anchor, or if it’s someone you know who’s planning to do something bad. “Yeah. He was pretty good as I remember. Hated tardiness, though, am I right?”
