In fifth grade we had a school-wide read-a-thon for 33 minutes. Every class from K-12 stopped what they were doing and read their book from 1:00 – 1:33. Mrs. Carney and all the other teachers encouraged parents or guardians to read with us. “Adults need to read more, too.” After lunch, she flipped the fluorescents off and we all dove into our adventures. The night before, I told my parents and yet, when the timer started, I read The Hobbit alone while my friends read books with their parents. At 1:15 I left Gollum’s cave in The Misty Mountains and glanced at the door, hoping Mom or Dad were running late. Adam’s dad read a Tom Clancy hardback beside him. Rachel’s mom clutched a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. The desk beside me looked as if someone were reading there invisibly, Bilbo Baggins having placed the golden ring on his finger, but it was just empty. At 1:30, three minutes left, my dad walked in, all eyes affixed on him, startled. He slouched into the nearest empty desk, by some kid I wasn’t even friends with, who already had both his parents with him. I wanted to call Dad over to the seat by me, but when I’d worked up the nerve to disturb the silence, Mrs. Carney said time was up, thanked all the parents for coming. Dad was the first to leave and didn’t even look or wave at me. After recess, Mrs. Carney called me to her desk, said “I think your dad left this.” It was a yellowed copy of The Hobbit, corners worn from so many reads. The grocery receipt bookmark was in the same chapter I was on. Dad’s chicken scratch read: Mrs. Carney’s class, 1:30-2:03, don’t be late this time.