The following morning I drove toward Pine Valley with the box on the passenger seat.

The route took me past the lumber plant, where Dad’s pickup used to sit among the other vehicles before dawn.

For years, that parking lot had represented everything he valued more than me: overtime, attendance, doing whatever it took to avoid another conversation at home.

I remembered one winter when my gloves had split along the seams.

He had come home with sawdust in his eyebrows and a new fishing reel tucked under his arm.

I’d said nothing until he asked why I was so quiet.