It was an honest answer.
It was also the exact same answer I’d given Theresa back in April. Just with the words turned around.
“Saturday,” I said again.
He nodded. He looked one more time at the windshield, at the gloves.
Then he drove our father’s pickup back down the lane.
Saturday, I got off at noon and was home by a quarter past. I ate standing up at the counter.
What I needed before I went over there was the green notebook. The pivot panel was throwing a fault. And Dad had written down every fault that machine ever threw, and what he’d done about it.
It wasn’t in the shop. I’d looked when I cleaned out my tools in March.
That left the truck.
Dad always kept his things on the passenger side. Under the bench seat on that side was where the log chain lived. And the jumper cables. And anything else he didn’t want his boys borrowing.
