I woke late the next morning, the sun as bright as it ever got in my shaded bedroom. I was hallucinating; I must be, because I smelled breakfast.
I peed, brushed my teeth, and still the odor of cooking food overwhelmed the powerful scent of peppermint in a tube. Staggering toward the kitchen in an oversized Red Sox T-shirt and boxer shorts, I made it as far as the living room before I remembered I had a house guest. Apparently, a cooking house guest.
Dad stood at the stove with his back to me, turning pancakes in one skillet and bacon in another.
I didn’t even know I owned two skillets.
“Morning, pumpkin,” he said, and pointed with a black plastic flipper toward the coffeepot on the corner counter. “There’s coffee.”
“Mmm-mmm,” I groaned.
Dad, who speaks Just-Woken Daughter, said, “Yo
