Maybe the drugs finally kicked in, because dad’s disposition changed completely in the morning. His right forearm, wrapped in surgical bandages, hung to the side as he scrambled up a pan of eggs with his left hand.

“Morning,” he said.

I just stood there in my pajamas. Kaylee was already at the table eating a piece of peanut buttered toast. Her silent smacks told me she wasn’t quite awake yet either.

“Grab us some plates. I’ll bring everything out.”

I opened the cupboard over the dishwasher and pulled out three dishes. Silverware was in the drawer next to the sink. Then I remembered this was Thursday.

“You have to go to work?”

“Called in. Told them everything,” he said, scooping up a plate of toast and delivering it to the table. “Thought we’d head down to the lake today.”

My jaw dropped. I looked at Kaylee, whose toothy grin was caked with peanut butter. We both erupted with glee, as dad smiled and shoveled billowy eggs onto our plates.

“Great. Let’s eat and get packed up, then.”

Hereford Lake was the amusement park of the tri-county area. It had canoes to rent, a fishing dock, a playground and courts for beach volleyball, tennis and my dad’s favorite, badminton. Simply hand over a valid state identification card and you could reserve whatever you wanted. Dad returned from the park information center carrying two skinny racquets and a shuttle.

“How about a little fun, huh?” he said.

“But you only got two racquets.”

Dad’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and stuffed it back in his pocket. “We’ll rotate games. Come on.”

And like that, we took our blankets and bags and staked our claim at Court Five. Dad volleyed first. I focused on the red nub, swung quickly and popped it high into the air. The game was a nice break, but so casual it was almost lethargic. It felt forced.

“I want to play,” Kaylee cried.

“Wait your turn.”

Dad floated the shuttle into the clouds with a taut plunk. The moment it left the strings of his racquet, something caught his attention across the field. He waited for my return, looking away again and once more. He drove his shot some fifteen feet in the air and ran over to Kaylee.

“Okay, Kaylee’s turn,” he said, putting the handle into her hands.

“Yay!”

“But we haven’t even finished,” I yelled.

“You win. Dad has to go do something.” And he rummaged through his backpack, pulling out a brown paper bag and shuffled off. “I’ll be right back.” He was half way across the field by the time my volley dropped to the ground.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Kaylee said.