Dad is watching cartoons, reruns of the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and drinking. I’m supposed to be asleep, but I sneak out of my room and watch from around the corner. He doesn’t laugh or smile while he watches, though his face is lit up from the glow of the television, making him look like a ghost in the dark. I notice that every time they say cow-a-bunga he takes a sip of whiskey, like he’s playing a game all by himself.

Eventually, I return to my room and pull out my action figures, Raphael and Michelangelo and Leonardo, I can’t find Donatello but he was never my favorite anyway. I don’t turn on the light so my dad won’t notice. I fight monsters turned into outrageous things by ooze, things Bebop and Rocksteady would be afraid of. I always defeat them, except tonight it doesn’t work. I can’t think of what my turtles should do to take down the evil creatures. I can’t picture them winning.

And I think I understand why my dad plays his own game, maybe he’s forgotten how to take down the evil creatures too. Maybe he needs to watch how it’s done.

I sneak back out but he’s fallen asleep. I leave Leonardo on Dad’s lap.

Evan James Sheldon is Senior Editor for F(r)iction and the Editorial Director for Brink Literacy Project. You can find him online at evanjamessheldon.com.