Grandpa.”
My father’s face changed at the word.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Later, after the Civic had been towed and Caleb was inside paying Mr. Peterson for something he forgot, my father stood beside me in the parking lot.
The air smelled like rain and motor oil.
He cleared his throat.
“I handled things badly.”
I looked at him.
He stared toward the road.continue reading …
