“Penny and I went ice skating last night,” I say. “At Wollman’s. Remember last year?” “I remember I almost broke my wrist,” Dad says dryly. “That girl is a firecracker.” “Be mad at me if you want, but don’t be mad at her.” “Mad?” He leads the way to a bench just inside the park. “I’m not mad at her or you, son. I’m mad at myself.”
