She looked around the garage, surprised to see that she and Mr. Mercer might have a bit in common. On the wall was a tattered poster of a flame-burst Gibson Les Paul, one of Emma’s favorite guitars from when she’d gone through her I-want-to-be-in-a-band phase. There was also a framed reprint of Emma’s favorite incorrect newspaper headline, DEWEY BEATS TRUMAN. And to the left of the racks of car-detailing equipment and weed killer was a small shelf that held ragged, well-loved crime-fiction paperbacks, many of which Emma had devoured, too. She wondered why they weren’t on the built-in bookshelves in the main house. Was Mrs. Mercer ashamed that her husband wasn’t into literary fiction? Or was it a dad thing to keep his favorite possessions in his own space?

Emma had never met her own father. When she was in kindergarten, a bunch of kids’ dads came into class and talked about what they did for a living; there was a doctor, a guy who owned a musical instrument shop, and a chef. Emma went home that day and asked Becky what her dad did. Becky’s face drooped, and she blew cigarette smoke through her nose. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Can you tell me his name?” Emma tried, but Becky wouldn’t answer. Shortly after that conversation, Emma went through a phase pretending that various men they met on their endless travels—Becky could never hold down a job for long—might secretly be her father. Raymond, the gas station cashier who slipped Emma a few free Tootsie Rolls with her purchase. Dr. Norris, the ER doctor who stitched up her knee when she fell on the playground. Al, a neighbor in their apartment complex who waved to Emma every morning. Emma pictured one of these men scooping her up, swinging her around, and taking her to the local Dairy Queen. But it never happened.

A barrage of moments came to me: my dad and me sitting at a table at a blues club, listening to a band play. My dad and me on a mountain trail, binoculars to our faces, watching birds. Me falling off my bike and running inside, searching for my dad to comfort me. I had a feeling my dad and I had had a special bond at one point in our lives. Suddenly, in light of what Emma went through, I felt lucky to have all those memories. But now my dad didn’t even know I was gone.

Emma leaned over the motorcycle, inspecting it carefully. “Why is the shifter on the wrong side?”

Mr. Mercer blinked at her, as if Emma had suddenly started speaking Swahili. “Actually, it’s not. This is a British bike. Before 1975, the gearshift was on the right side.” He laughed uncomfortably. “I thought your interest in cars stopped with 1960s Volvos.”