She asked this question with a lightheartedness that didn’t match his own sense of worry.

“Just trying to keep up. Your life zooms along,” he said. “And sometimes I just need to chase you down.”

She laughed, but with a slightly hollow tone. “Well, that old car of yours is fast enough.”

“Anything we need to talk about?” he repeated, then scowled, because he knew she would notice the redundancy.

She answered quickly, “No. For the second time. Why do you ask? Is everything okay with you?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“What about Mom? And Hope? She’s okay, isn’t she?”

He caught his breath. The familiar way she used the name of her mother’s partner always took him aback, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised after so many years.

“She’s fine. They’re both fine, I guess.”

“So what’s with the call? Something else bugging you?”

He looked at the letter in front of him.

“No, not at all. No particular reason. Just catching up. And anyway, that’s what dads do: We’re always bugged. We worry. All we can imagine are worst-case scenarios. Doom, despair, and difficulty, lurking at every turn. It’s what makes us the uniquely boring and deadly dull people we are.”

He listened to her laugh, which made him feel a little bit better.

“Look, I’m heading into the museum and we’re going to lose service. Let’s talk again soon, okay?”

“Sure. Love you.”

“I love you, Dad. Bye.”

He placed the phone back on the cradle and thought that sometimes what you don’t hear is much more important than what you do. And, on this occasion, he had heard nothing but trouble.