He doesn't know for sure, because he's stopped tracking the days on the calendar. Even after all that chest-thumping about how important it was, after all the bravado about controlling time so it didn't control him, he couldn't do it. He couldn't convince himself that it mattered. Eventually, Todd started marking the days instead. Alan noted this fact with no small shame, but it was insufficient to get him off the couch. He knows his son deserves better, but he didn't choose this. He didn't choose any of it. They are at the park. The air is hot and heavy, broken only by the groan and squeak of the chains as he pushes Todd on a swing. The boy's old enough to swing on his own, but he asked to be pushed. It doesn't matter—nothing does—but Alan obliges him. If someone were to ask, he wouldn't be able to explain why. The boy's t-shirt is damp with sweat at the hips. The swing shoves away with a long protest—squeeeak—and then comes back with a squawk. Squeeeak, squawk. Squeeeak, squawk.
