It’s 11:30 on a Thursday morning when I knock once and open his bedroom door.

I have been awake since dawn flitting between duties of home and office. Drumming my fingers. Waiting and watching for his door to open. For water to pulse through drains. For his car to leave its parking space.

I am here now because there has been no movement whatsoever. My texts go unanswered and unread. He’s had all week to do nothing.

The temperature has reached 80 degrees outside and the relative humidity feels like a hundred and eighty percent, but my son’s room is frosty. I open the door wider and fan into the swampy air of the hallway.

He is tangled in a blanket, still asleep, one foot and one arm hanging akimbo from the bed.

I am playing the Good Cop today since his father strained his voice reading the riot act last night. But at the sight of him, I sense my good nature slipping.

I rap on the wall to rouse him.

“What’s the plan, Stan?”

“Huuuuh,” he answers slowly, lifting his head and raising himself on his elbows,........

© The Saratogian