Father keeps smoke close to his heart. His shirts wear the same: loose at the stomach, front pockets that sag, ready to spill.
Father never said if he used a watch, fell asleep, or had to repeat some mantra. My theory is the hypnotist saw me, four staples old at the time, and told Father I would learn every definition of liability.
After leaving, Father buckles me into the pickup, gently places riprap on my lower half, and cracks the driver's side window. He periodically sticks his index finger and thumb into his front pocket, chuckles, and pulls out nothing.
To this day, I'm terrible at claw arcade games.
It's late August when the first ember in Father's beard burns out.
