My father drives a big red truck around Philadelphia. His face is fat. He wears blue jeans. When he talks he trips over his words, they fall out like thick stones wedged in wrong places and it makes him angry. I'd forgotten all this until the afternoon when Mom and I sat in the parking lot of Fleet Bank until my father picked me up and we drove around the back roads of Paoli instead of going to lunch. He only had a few minutes to talk, he said. It'd been four years. He said I looked good. This isn't my real hair color, I told him. He said it didn't matter, it looked natural. We pulled into an empty parking lot that faced a vacant athletic field where my half-brother played lacrosse. My father reached into his pocket, pulled out a check and handed it to me. No one was around. It was like a bastard drug deal. I wish I had been in your life while you were growing up, he said. Whatever. I told him that too, I said, Whatever, it doesn't matter now. Drizzle turned to steady rain. The grass on the athletic field was a striking green. I wanted to say something nice but the words got all wedged in wrong places and instead of speaking I lost myself in the brake lights of other cars, red lights streaking the streets and thick wet waves bouncing oblivious off empty stone houses, purifying black driveways and perfect lawns.