– Almost through with that?

Paul doesn’t look up, just folds the newspaper and places it on the table in front of his father’s chair.

Mr. Cheney pours himself a cup from the Mr. Coffee.

– Don’t have to give me the whole thing. Finish reading what you were reading.

Paul gets up and takes his cereal bowl and spoon to the sink and washes them and puts them on the dish rack. He picks up his own coffee cup from the table and starts for the kitchen door.

His dad is at the table, fingering the corner of the front page.

– You got in late last night.

Paul stops.

– Ya huh.

– Out with the guys?

– Ya huh.

– How are they?

– I’uh nuh.

Mr. Cheney takes a sip from his cup.

– What are you doing today?

Paul stands in the doorway, back to his father, shrugs.

– Summer almost over. Got any big plans?

Another shrug.

– Never see the guys anymore. Used to play over here all the time.

Paul walks.

– My head hurts. Goin’ to my room.

Mr. Cheney moves to the door.

– Need anything?

Paul keeps walking. His father watches him disappear down the hall, then sits at the table and waits.

He hears it when Paul slips past the kitchen and into the garage, hears the automatic door swing up, and knows his son has ridden off on the bike he bought him for his sixteenth birthday in lieu of the car he really wanted.

He gets up and goes to the cabinet next to the refrigerator and squats to reach behind the stack of newspapers Paul hasn’t taken to the curb for recycling in weeks, and takes out the jug of Delacort brandy hidden there. He holds it up and checks the level against the mark he made on the label last night. No change. He takes the bottle to the sink, pours half his coffee down the drain and replaces it with brandy, makes a fresh mark on the label and puts the bottle back behind the papers.