George walked inside, put a hand on Sheldon’s shoulder—a rare, heavy, warm touch—and said, “Ribs are ready. Anyone want to talk about football instead of my attendance record?”
“The viscosity is suboptimal today, Mother. You added the milk before the brown sugar, disrupting the protein matrix.”
Then Deacon Carl cleared his throat. “George, we’ve noticed you missed the last two men’s prayer breakfasts. Everything alright?”
Sheldon looked up. He observed his father’s micro-expressions: the slight twitch in his left eye, the way he clenched the spatula. His mother’s knuckles were white around her iced tea glass. The air was thick with unspoken things—entropy of the emotional kind.
As his father walked away, Sheldon allowed himself a small, rare smile. He pulled the covers up to his chin and whispered to the stars:
