“Mr. Maxin told us what happened,” he said. “Robert tells that guy everything. Not sure grounding you would matter, since you don’t have anywhere to go now anyway.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He hit my shoulder. “Mostly kidding.”

We reached a fork in the trail. One side went to this secluded cranberry bog that Austin swore was where ghosts went to swap murder stories, and the other side went to the back of a cul-de-sac. Instead of choosing, my dad turned around, heading back.

“Carter’ll change his mind.”

“You didn’t see him last night,” I said.

Except for our slow footsteps, the nature around us was eerily quiet. It was too far into the fall for bugs, and still too early for birds and squirrels to prepare for winter. My dad’s uneven walking thumped against the path. His knee was starting to get to him.

“He will,” said my dad. “Might take years, though you guys are too close to never see each other again.”

“No offense, but you’re wrong.”

He chuckled. “I want to tell you something.”

Awesome. That meant I could focus on trying not to throw up again.

“I’ve never shared this,” he said. “I was waiting for, I don’t know. I guess a good moment.”

“Okay . . .”

“This guy,” my dad patted his knee, his bad one, “wasn’t some overuse injury.”

He was right that this was a big deal. My dad had spoken about his injury only one time—when I was six and I asked why he never played goalie for me. He’d answered that he didn’t want to risk twisting his knee again. Again? I had asked. And he told me that a long time ago, he’d twisted his knee and couldn’t play soccer anymore. That’s why he’d had to quit, even though he’d been really good. Later, from my mom, I found out he was USA National Team–level good, but he’d had to halt his career before he could make it there.

“What happened?”

“’Bout twenty-five years ago. It was a Tuesday. Few weeks after junior year of college. Just started dating your mom.”

“Gross.”

“Right. Anyways, that day I was supposed to try out for the USA National Team.”

What? I had no idea my dad had actually tried out for the team. Everyone had said he got hurt before he actually could. “You did try out for them?”

“I was supposed to,” he said. “Had my Wheaties that day and everything. Wore my lucky socks. I was too nervous to drive, and your mom volunteered. Got to take the Green Machine.” Ah yes, my dad’s favorite car: the 1980s Volkswagen. I’d heard countless stories about that car and the trouble my dad had gotten into while driving it.

“What happened to that car anyway?”

“Hang on, I’m getting there,” he said. “That day, your mom drove me. Route she’d taken a million times. Thirty minutes out, right on the freeway, easy. About ten minutes in, we got in this huge fight.”