I tossed the bag into the back seat, then worried Sarah would look in it. But so long as she believed it had something to do with Batman, I was safe. “I’ll just get the barbecue going,” I said, and ran back into the house, through the kitchen, and out through the glass doors to the deck. I opened the lid on the barbecue, turned on the gas, and, forever the optimist, pressed the red ignition button.

Nothing.

I clicked it a second time, then a third. “Goddamn thing.” Why did I think it would suddenly start working now, just because I had an urgent errand to run? This’ll work forever, the salesman said when we bought it. How long ago had that been? Three months, four?

By now, there was enough propane circulating in the atmosphere that if the red button beat the odds and actually worked on the fourth try, they’d be picking up pieces of me in Trixie’s backyard. I turned the valve off hard, waved my hand around to disperse the gas, and went into the house for some matches. Confident there was no leftover propane hanging around in the atmosphere, I turned the gas back on and immediately dropped a lit match into the bottom of the barbecue. There was a soft “poof” as the flame ignited.

I got the burners on both sides going, then lowered the lid to let the heat build up.

Paul and his buddies were coming into the kitchen as I came through the glass doors. “What’s to eat?” Paul asked.

“I’m just heating up the barby,” I said. “If your friends want hot dogs or something, I think we’ve got some in the fridge. I’ve got to go out for a few minutes.”

“Don’t forget your purse,” said Andy, who was already into our fridge like it was his own. “You got any Coke?”

“Dad,” Paul said. “You got a sec?”

I didn’t, but I stopped anyway. “Yeah?”

“Angie told me she told you what I wanted to do.”

I was trying to remember. “Maybe you could refresh my memory.”

“About a tattoo.”

“No.”

“No, she didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, she told me, and no, you can’t get one.”

Paul was crestfallen. “Can we, like, talk about this?”

“We are talking about this. And I’m saying no.”

“I don’t believe this. You haven’t even heard me out. You don’t even know what I’m asking for.”

“Are you asking whether you can get a tattoo?”

“Maybe, yeah, but—”

“You’re too young. You need my permission, I think, at any reputable tattoo parlor, to get a tattoo at your age, and I’m not signing.”

“Everyone has them, Dad. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’d love to discuss this with you, but I have an errand to run.”

“Sure. Walk away.”