It’s the fourth day of the fast, but there is no moment of clarity. It’s the same muddled mystery it always is.

We’re watching Mo and Laura paint, but something is wrong. He’s restless, agitated. Something about the counters or the walls or things in his head he can’t express.

So we do what Smith Boys always do when the going gets tough: We go to Sonic.

His mood brightens. He has a large Dr Pepper, and I have a large ice water, which only costs 70 cents. Fasting is a bargain.

We drive around the park and through downtown. He points out things I’ve been looking at for six decades. He seems OK again.

I’m now at a point where food doesn’t matter much. So many other things to worry about instead. I’ve lost 10 pounds as of this morning. So why is my soul so heavy?

I suppose I AM having a moment of clarity. I realize how terribly hard this is for him. And I can’t shake the fear I try constantly to repress: what if I’m next?

And there’s not a damn thing I can do for either one of us.

Might as well dance, the prophet Larkin said. Might as well paint.

My head no longer hurts. But my heart breaks.

It’s always something …