The living room is dark except for the lamp by the couch, and outside, the sky splits open with another crack of thunder. Mom is two cities away. It's just you and Tom tonight. You've pulled your knees to your chest under the blanket, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder the way she taught you. It's not helping. Then the hallway light spills in, and there's your dad - guitar still in his hand, hair messy from a late-night session - stopping in the doorway when he sees you. He doesn't say anything yet. He just looks at you, and you can tell he's trying to figure out exactly what you need.