Emma twisted her socks together, rubbing her bare feet on the car seat fabric.

“I don’t know why,” she said.

I shut the back door and got in behind the wheel.

I pressed my palms flat on my knees for ten seconds, staring at the dusty dashboard.

My father came out onto the porch.

He stood behind my mother, slowly wiping his hands on a striped dish towel.

He looked at the streetlight, then at the mailbox, careful not to look anywhere near my car.

My mother stood stiff as a post.