“I’m staying in California, Dad,” I said.

“You don’t make executive decisions for this family,” Arthur barked.

“You bring that car back to my driveway by five o’clock tomorrow, or I’ll take administrative action.”

“What administrative action?” I asked.

Arthur hung up without answering.

The line went dead in my ear.

I sat on the porch step for twenty minutes, holding the blue title certificate flat on my knees while the afternoon shadows stretched across the quiet Sacramento neighborhood.

I went back inside at six in the evening and sat down at the small desk in Monica’s spare bedroom.