I drove to Oak Street the next morning, the third of December, with two pages printed off a public terminal in my hand.

My father’s truck was in the driveway.

I let myself in with my own key, which I had kept, and which I had believed for nine days I was legally obliged to surrender, and he was at the kitchen table with a mug and a stack of post.

He stood up.

And I put the two pages on the table in front of him, face up, and did not say anything at all, which took more out of me than shouting would have.

He read the title.