My father must have heard me walking past his bedroom that late afternoon. He often went to his room before dinner. I assumed he was awake probably watching TV or reading the newspaper, something hardly anyone did anymore, but he did.
He said through the closed door, “I’m still breathing.”
“I’m going out for a bit. I’m walking down to the lake,” I said. I stood listening for a reply. There was none. I stayed a few more minutes not making a sound. Then I heard him mumble something to himself in a quiet, monotone voice. All I could hear was “thank you” said twice, but I didn’t think he was talking to me.