I napped on the back seat. When I woke up, we were driving along the edge of the empty amusement park parking lot, as though you didn’t see the vast space to our left, the faded lines of the parking spots.

The Bug swerved, though there was nothing to steer clear of, and I nearly fell off the seat.

“We’re here,” you said. “Look.”

I sat up and fingered my cheek, where the seat cushion’s patterned vinyl had left an imprint. I knelt at the window and pressed five fingertips against the glass. In the distance, Lake Erie shook its brown-gray fists against the color-leeched sky. We sputtered to the front gate.

You parked across two parking spaces, turned the ignition off, and got out, letting a frigid draft into the warm bubble of the car.

I put my whole face against the glass, felt the pressure against the bones of my nose and forehead. You walked past the ticket booths and up to a big gray gate. You shook the padlock and grabbed the bars of the gate, like a prisoner trying to break out. You walked back to the car, your mouth a straight line, your face a locked gate. Your hair had frizzed, and you held it behind your head with one hand. You wore jeans and a denim shirt buttoned to your neck, and sneakers that slid along the icy ground. You righted yourself, bent your knees, and held your arms like a surfer, gliding till you hit the car with your hip to stop yourself. You laughed, like you couldn’t help yourself—it was funny, and you were going to laugh.

The laugh made me feel safe, and the memory of that feeling makes me realize how scared I was, how I must have known something was wrong.

You got inside the car, bringing the cold air with you. I crossed my arms tightly for warmth. You chewed your thumbnail for a minute, put both hands on the steering wheel. You didn’t start the car.

“We can’t have the heater, Mama?”

You faced the gates, relaxed and patient. As though you expected someone to come out at any minute and invite us in.

“I guess it’s closed,” you said.

You rested your forehead against the steering wheel, like you were so, so tired.

“I’m hungry, Mama.”

My words animated you. You lifted your head slowly, at the same time reaching into a paper shopping bag on the passenger seat and taking out a plastic baggie of Fritos.

Accepting that bag meant giving up on my birthday. I didn’t want to. I put as much perkiness into my voice as I could. “I know! Let’s go to McDonald’s.”

You put the Fritos back and rummaged around for another baggie. “Grapes?” Like you’d prepared for a picnic.