My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge

I unzipped my black work apron and pulled out my diner tips from the night before.

I smoothed the crumpled bills out on the passenger seat, pressing the creases flat against the worn upholstery.

Twenty-four dollars in worn singles.

Two fives.

A handful of sticky quarters.

Four dimes.

Thirty-six dollars and forty cents in all.

I gathered up the cash and shoved it deep into the center console, snapping the plastic lid shut.