Anchorage, Alaska

I wake up.

Silence.

An unzipped sleeping bag is draped over me on the first floor of the van, a place that has been the boys’ bed for the last fifty days. There is no shushed laughter. No whispers. I cannot hear the sound of Dominic picking his fingernails waiting for me to get up so we can eat breakfast. I turn over and breathe in the Transformers pillowcase that my head is on. It smells of Dominic’s greasy, unwashed hair. Finn’s pillow, tan with pirate paraphernalia all over it, is next to me. There is a black stain from one of his bloody noses and I can see it through the slit in the pillowcase. It’s shaped like Florida. I grab his pillow and pull it to my chest.

I grab my phone from the table and check the messages.

Ashley: We are having breakfast at Snow City if you want to join.

I type: I just woke up and I’ll be there shortly.

Then I get up, change shirts, pee in the gutter, get in the driver’s seat, and fire up the van.

This is what you do when your ex-wife offers to have breakfast with you and your children for the first time since you pushed her away. For the first time since you stopped being a family.

I park the van and round the block. People are lined up outside of the restaurant. Inside, there are two dozen patrons waiting for tables and I push through them to get to the dining area. Waitresses with sleeve tattoos and horn-rimmed glasses glide around me with trays of eggs and potatoes; they leave steam trails as they pass. Ashley, Dominic, and Finn are sitting about midway down and I grab a seat. She has coffee for me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Morning,” she says.

The boys have on clean clothes and their skin is much darker than hers. They are both working through the last bits of their food.

“How’s the hotel?”

“Good.”

“Did the boys sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Finn didn’t wake up after you carried him in. Dominic passed out a little later.” She takes a drink of her coffee, which is the color of hot cocoa. “As usual, they woke up me up this morning with their arguing.”

I grab my coffee and take a drink. It’s lukewarm and I know it’s been here a while. Light pain washes through me: she expected me sooner. I shouldn’t have slept in.

“Yeah,” I say, putting the cup down. “They do that.”

“Are you hungry?” She points to their plates, where there are half-eaten pancakes and scattered hash browns. I look at her instead. She has makeup on, and has taken time on it. Her eyeliner is thicker than I’m used to and her lashes are long and black, not their real color. Her face has the flat look of foundation. And her hair has work in it too; it’s glowing red in looping curls that pile on top of each other, spilling off of her shoulders and down her back. But I remember the ten years of morning face, the unprepared hair, the sleep crust in the corners of her eyes.

And it’s here that her fragility breaks my heart. Not because of the makeup, but because she’s so afraid of me that she’s hiding behind it.

I think of saying I’m sorry. Instead of saying it, I drink more coffee, sipping it like it’s hot.

“What’re you guys up to today?” I say.

“I asked if you were hungry.” She is smiling.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’ll eat what they don’t eat.” I pull a plate of potatoes over and start.

“We’re going to the animal park today. The one in Portage.”

The potatoes are cold and I am shoveling them in and not looking up. Dominic and Finn are talking to each other or talking to me, I don’t really know. I keep my eyes on the lessening potatoes and sound...