“So she is crying, says some story about the other people who were going to take them, I never figured out who, can’t because they got sick. She just steamrolls him. My dad, who had made a little fence out of chicken wire for one or two puppies, relents to take all ten of them. Rodney shakes his hand in the way that men with stuff to prove shake hands. Shakes his hand with his shoulders up and square, leering. Like he wasn’t shaking my dad’s hand but sizing up the entire prior relationship him and my mom had and the whole life they built together. He makes a gesture to help build a fence for the puppies, and drives off to some hardware store while my mom and dad get out all of the dog food and bowls she had brought and figure out how my dad was going to set it up. That’s how it was. My dad couldn’t even set it up himself, he had to get coached. I used to think that my dad was just weak and he let my mom get her way, but he just didn’t care. He just was completely apathetic. So basically fifteen minutes after crying, my mom is mad at my dad again, ’cause he didn’t invite her inside his house. Which was definitely weird, mind you, but I don’t think my dad wanted this to last longer than it had to. They sat on the porch with all the dogs. Rodney comes back and him and my dad build a fence off to the side of the big, metal garage my dad has. Now, my dad worked for a dealership forever after the factory closed, working as a mechanic, and had a good collection of classic cars. Now, he always keeps this locked, so that ain’t a problem. He tells Rodney what cars he has but doesn’t open it. But behind the garage my dad has a completely trashed, broken-down pickup truck alongside piles upon piles of scrap metal, and Rodney gets super excited about it, talking about all the money he could sell this for, that he would haul it off for him, he has a truck, etc. My dad wasn’t interested, whether out of pride or complacency, I don’t know. But Rodney tries to convince my dad to let him take it for days following this.”

“Are you ready to go? It’s late. But I still want to hear the story. Keep telling it to me.”

“I’m sorry it’s long. I thought it was a short story when I first started it.”

“It’s okay. I like it. Are you ready to go home?”

“Yeah, I’ll finish it on the walk.”

“Okay.”