Dad orders takeout for dinner, and my parents and I sit around the living room together, eating Thai food and watching Netflix. Everything feels wonderfully normal. Detective Bowerbank calls to confirm that the white powder in the mailbox was not anthrax, and we celebrate by defrosting a chocolate cheesecake in the microwave and eating an impressive amount of it. Dad finishes his second slice and pushes his plate away with a sigh. “Pad Thai, beer and cheesecake. Life is good.” Mom licks her fork. “Back on the wagon in the morning.” “I’ll make dinner tomorrow,” I say. “I’ve found this great website called Homemade and Heart Healthy—” Dad groans and folds his hands across his belly. “Don’t talk about food. I’ll never be hungry again.” “Not until at least midnight,” Mom says. My cell rings. I hesitate. “Go ahead,” Dad says. “Talk to your girlfriend. You’ve put in your time with the old fogy.” “Dad! You’re not—” He laughs. “I meant your mother.”
