That night, they had a long dinner at the expensive restaurant in the old hotel on Higgins, followed by wine at the new wine bar.

“Just so you know, this place is not, like, the real Missoula,” Alex said. He was tipsy. His earlier seething ambivalence had been sanded down and he was in the mood to share.

“Seems real enough to me,” his father said.

“You choose the Matrix,” Alex said.

“Excuse me?”

“Like in The Matrix. The guy’s eating a fancy steak and he’s like, ‘I choose the Matrix.’”

“You’re very strange,” his father said.

“You say that, but, I mean, I’m your son,” Alex said. “If I’m strange, you’re a big part of it.”

“I’m a lot of things, Alexander,” his father said lightly. “But I’m not strange.”

“Well, maybe your, uh, assiduous attempts to suppress your strangeness are what did it, then.”

His father finished his final inch of wine in a long sip.

“I’d be looking at your mother if I were you,” he said. “You’re all strange. Her, your sister, you. I’m not being critical. I’m fine with it. I’m very proud of you no matter how strange you are.”

That old pride again. His father paused and signaled with his empty glass to their waitress, a friend of Alex’s, that he urgently needed more wine. Then he leaned back against the padded booth, holding his glass at a tilt as though waiting for it to be filled.

“I mean, I’m glad you’re not one of these little pony boys,” he continued. “I’ll say that much at least. I told you about this, right?”

“I think I would remember that, whatever it is,” Alex said.