He’s the first to notice that Dad is missing.

Like a fan of feathers, his hair is sprawling, uninhibited, unaware, the same way he sleeps. Crumbs of brown sugar toast are still around the edges of his mouth when he asks if he can go outside.

“Sure,” I say. I know what he’s looking for.

He is eager, alive.

The girls are inside. One of them, arms as noodle-like as the scarf she’s twirling, is humming and singing as she spins. The other one has three princesses on her shirt and is combing Barbie’s pink and blonde hair.

“Yours is so ratty and if you don’t stop that you are gonna get a spankin’.”

It is a stark contrast. And it is the outside that draws me today.

Dad is climbing a mountain of a ladder. With a bad back no less. There are large paint buckets filled with swirls near his feet, trails of hoses, and a schizophrenic motor that isn’t sure if it needs to be on or off. There are rollers, brushes, and tape. There is brown paper lining the windows and tarps for drips.

And there is a boy in Iron Man pajama pants, hanging out with his very own superhero.