was making a mistake.
I listened while packing everything into my truck.
But I didn’t argue.
There was nothing left to debate.
I drove to Dad’s house.
The trip usually took twenty-two minutes.
That morning, with most people already where they planned to spend the holiday, it took seventeen.
Dad lived in a small 1960s ranch house on a corner lot.
His detached garage had never had an empty bay for as long as I could remember.
There was always something inside being repaired.
A neighbor’s lawn mower.
An old
