“Mom?” I asked.

“Iris, your mother is worn out from running in circles with you,” Arthur’s voice boomed in my ear, taking over the line without warning.

He was talking straight into the handset from his home office in Portland.

“Hello, Dad,” I said.

“Listen to me carefully,” Arthur said.

His voice had the loud, commanding bark he used when failing a contractor on a building inspection.

“You took a motor vehicle registered to this family’s address across state lines without my permission.”