He is too sad, and I don’t know how to help that. I’m good at dealing with his anger, but this sorrow frightens me. “Dad, I miss him,” he says, forehead resting on the bag. Panic flails again. If I open my mouth I will make it worse. I need his mother here, she would know how to ease this, but I look and look and can’t find any version of her, and I am useless. “Keep punching,” I say, and turn for the stairs. “Dad,” he begs, his voice breaking, but I don’t know what else to do.
