Page 135 of Wreckage and Rain

"She means it."

"Autumn doesn't write things she doesn't mean."

"She has never written me a letter before. Fifteen years. Birthday cards. Texts at three in the morning. Never a letter."

I fold the letter. Hand it back. She tucks it into the visor pocket with the gas-station coffee receipts and every other small evidence she keeps of the people who love her.

"You feel her watching."

"I feel her watching."

"Good."

***

We pull into the parking garage in Chicago at four in the morning.

The hallway smells like the curry the neighbors made for supper. The lock is the same temperamental lock she's been wrestling with for months. I carry up the cooler and the Tupperwares and the duffel bag. She carries the cake.

Inside, the apartment is as she left it. The pad on the kitchen table where she's been outlining Book Five. The throw blanket I gave her in October that she's been pretending she didn't want and that's now in a permanent state of being draped across the back of the couch.

"Home," she says.

"For three more weeks."

"Home for three more weeks."

She sets the cake on the counter. Goes to the cabinet. Pulls out two of the rocks glasses Sam gave her.

I take the bourbon out of the bag. Break the seal.

She holds out the glasses. I pour. Two fingers each. She hands me mine.

"To Daddy."

"To Dad."

She looks at me. The crooked corner.

"Dad, huh."

"He says I'm family. I'm not going to make him say it twice."

"He won't. He'll just pour you a beer next time and that'll be the whole conversation."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

We touch glasses. We drink. The bourbon is the smoothest thing I have ever put in my mouth and the smell of it brings tears up behind my eyes and I don't let them out. They're still saved. Saving themselves for something.

She kisses me. Just once. Quick. Bourbon-warm.

"Sleep."

"Sleep."

***

The next afternoon, I go to Vibes.