“You leave every Friday morning,” I noted softly.

“I always assumed you were just having trouble sleeping, so you went out for early drives.”

Dad remained silent, resuming his steady work as peas dropped into the bowl with soft metallic clicks.

“Where do you actually go every Friday morning, Dad?” I asked quietly.

He snapped open another pod with his thumb.

“You will see soon enough.”

“I want to know right now,” I pressed.

“You will see everything on Saturday morning,” Dad promised softly.