I buy a ticket to downtown Hamilton. I didn’t tell him I’m coming; I’m afraid he’d somehow postpone the visit or something. Waiting on the bank of green vinyl chairs for the announcement about my bus, I watch pigeons fly up in a frenzy, then settle down again.

*   *   *

The sky darkens as we approach the destination. I get my bearings and try to remember where my dad lives, where the coffee shop he owns—Bean There, a name I can’t help but like—is in relation to the station. And the apartment, which is walking distance from there. It’s all so conveniently close that you’d think I would visit more often. Last time I was here, my dad and Eleanor had me over for dinner. They cooked together and were laughing and flirting while they were standing at the stove. I didn’t know what to do, so I fiddled with the little rooster-and-hen salt-and-pepper shakers and spilled a bunch of salt all over the table. Eleanor laughed it off, saying it was no big deal, but that we had to throw some over our left shoulders to ward off bad luck. It was a really nice night, in the end. But it’s been a long time since I was here. After the divorce a couple of years ago, he had a kind of agreement with Mom. It wasn’t legal or official or anything, but I saw him about one weekend a month. And then less and less.

The bus brakes make a squealing sound as it slows into the station, and I get up with everyone else. People half-stand under the baggage storage above, their heads bent, angling to get out first. The girl in front of me pulls her underwear out of her bum. The driver tells someone in a huge hurry how to make their connecting bus, then helps an old woman down the steps.

Soon I’m standing on the road, a little unsure of where to go next. Come on, Stevie, you got this. I start walking, and sure enough, it’s coming back to me. I remember where Bean There is, and where the apartment is.