I watched the vehicle slowly pull away from the curb and disappear into the dark evening traffic.

My father called me three times on Tuesday night, but I did not answer.

On Wednesday afternoon, I agreed to meet him at a small coffee shop on Third Avenue, three miles from my apartment.

Arthur sat across from me in the corner booth, his heavy hands flat on the laminated wood.

He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose before he spoke.

I watched his fingers.