He didn’t raise his voice or change his stance.

“Where is Ethan?” he asked.

“He’s in the living room on Elm Street,” I said.

My father turned slightly, keeping his body between the passing traffic and my right side.

“Get in the front seat,” he said.

I hobbled across the shoulder, using the hood of his sedan for balance until I could sit down on the passenger side.

My father reached over my lap, buckled Noah into the rear infant seat, and shut the door with a firm click.

My father walked around to the driver’s side of his gray sedan and opened the door.