Fallout (Crank 3)

is definitely not happy. His scowl

creases his face, makes him look

a decade older than his fifty-seven

years. I wave to draw his attention.

When he sees me, his expression

softens, but only a modicum.

Like from “ready to kick someone’s

ass” to “maybe I’ll just mess him up

a little.” I’d like to say I’ve never

seen him like this before, but why

lie? Dad possesses a temper,

and patience isn’t his best thing.

Mom says I take after him that way.

I have no idea what she means.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls even.

“What’s going on?” Mom chugs

up after him, and I add, “Hi, Mom.

Sorry I missed breakfast.”

On Saturdays, if Mom is home

instead of book touring, she tries

to make breakfast special. There

was a time when I wouldn’t miss one.

Mom smiles, and in kind of a polar

opposite way to Dad, the crinkles

around her eyes plump up. No prob.

Sometimes sleep trumps food.

Dad snorts impatiently. We’re

late. “Circumstances beyond

our control” and all. Can we talk

at dinner? Still pissy. Poor Mom.