Kara Not looking at my phone to check my messages all day felt like I had lost one of my toes. I felt incomplete without it, a little unbalanced. It was pretty sad, really. It helped that it was extremely busy at The Yard. Between answering phone calls, paperwork, talking to walk-in clients, and still familiarizing myself with how everything worked at my new job, I didn't have a lot of time to obsess with the chaos that was my life. But still, there were breaks in between, and those I found myself reaching for my phone, barely stopping myself at the last second. I thought I was an independent soul that could survive if the apocalypse came, but who was I kidding? Couldn't even live without technology, I scoffed at myself. I would learn, I promised myself, as I gathered my things, clocked out, and headed to the parking lot behind the office. I'd learn how to plant vegetables, live without electricity, without society. It would be a peaceful life. Weren't ninjas little infants before they learned how to throw shuriken? You could learn anything you set your mind to. I still had hope. I guess you should start by learning to build a fire. You know, so you could heat up your cave when the time comes. Safe inside my car, I took a giant breath and finally reached for my phone. Instantly anxiety filled my chest. There were a lot of unread messages. This morning when Cameron dropped me off at my house to get my car, I thought about coming in, waking up my dad so we could talk but changed my mind. Saturdays were very busy at the shop and he needed his sleep. Maybe it was an excuse so I could postpone my talk with him, but it was a legit one. I got into my car and drove to work with Cameron in his truck following behind me. My phone screen lit up as I scrolled through my messages, my heart tripping as I read them all. By the time I was done, I put my phone on silent, shut my brain off, and drove home. My dad was waiting for me at the front door of our house. It was early in the evening but already it was dark. The porch light was on, casting a glow on him. He had light blond hair, like Dylan's, but it had gone a little darker over the years, generously peppered with grey. He was so deep in thought he didn't even notice when I parked at the lot, when I walked the dirt path to our house. I stood a few feet away, watching him think. A bottle of whiskey sat beside him on the bench. His thin, handsome face showed every worry line. Had he lost weight? Did he look exhausted more than usual? When did my dad's shoulders curve that way? Like an ancient tree with its branches bent forward from the demanding weight of its leaves. What was this horrible feeling every time I realize that my dad was getting older? That one day he wouldn't be around anymore. I felt like a little girl again, with that familiar desperate urgency blooming in my chest to run into my dad's arms so I could hear him tell me that everything was going to be okay. But I stayed where I was. I was no longer that little girl. Suddenly my dad looked up. The usual warm greeting that lit his face every time he saw me wasn't there. He rose, hesitated, and took a step toward me. The expression on his face swiftly shifted and all the love he had for me reflected in his eyes. "Is my Kara Koala back home now then?" I nodded, unable to utter a single word from the thick lump of emotion stuck in my throat. "Want to come inside?" he asked. "I picked up your favorite pizza." I cleared my throat. "Okay." He nodded, then grabbed the bottle of whiskey before opening the door to let me in. "You're drinking," I said. "Just a little." It was rare to see Mike Hawthorne drink. I'd only ever seen him drunk once and that was the night his wife ran away. How could he when he had to take care of two little kids by himself? He always worried about us, never taking a break. Once his friends took him on a three-day fishing trip. Charity, my dad's brother Andrew's wife, had volunteered to babysit us, but Dad came home that first night, reasoning that he couldn't enjoy himself when he's worried sick about his kids. Maybe he had the same separation anxiety I had back then too. "Pour me a shot, Dad." "You got it." We sat on the sofa, quietly eating pizza and drinking whiskey. He'd turned the TV on but muted it. How many times had we sat together like this? Comforted by each other's presence. "When did my Kara Koala grow up? You used to be this tiny firecracker that always bossed me around. Now you're my drinking buddy." I gripped the glass in my hand, looking down at it. I couldn't look at my dad's face now. I'd break. He wasn't just my dad. He was also my best friend. "I can outdrink you anytime," I said. "You can." He took his time sipping his drink. I knew he was contemplating what to say. "How was your day today? You worked at the new place?" "Yeah, it's busy during the weekends. I like it. Charity manned the desk at the shop today?" "Sure did." "Okay, good. What about the gym, Dad? Are you done painting?" "Not yet. Took the night off today." To wait for me to come home. I felt like a bad daughter. "I'll do overtime tomorrow," he said. "I invited your boyfriend to drop by." My jaw dropped open. "Got a really good-looking face, that one." "What? Who?" He raised his brows. "The one who had your phone." Shit. I studied my dad's face, looking for any signs of upset, but he just looked curious. Relief that my dad was okay with it poured in. I cleared my throat. "Cameron came to see you?" Cameron didn't mention anything. When did this happen?