His rug was shag as high as an army man and had pillows you could fit two brothers on. In the mornings, the seaplanes left us lying there by his charcoals and paints, our windows open to a pajama breeze. He reminded us then that we slept in the coolest houseboat on the bay. Rolling over around nine he left in his Mustang for L.A. Around ten his friends came over, sewing patches on each other. He came home with a flask from the flea market and tacos for us. The sun had bleached his smile and cut his jeans off. On days like that, Mike wanted to be in his screenplay, we all did. That was a weekend wish as we flew kites off his roof and he threw pillows at us like we weren't even related.