Below us, parked on the circular drive, is my father’s two-seater MG. Top down, candy-apple red, absolutely gorgeous. Rakish and wonderful, its wire wheels and chrome work gleam in the sun. I haven’t seen that car since I was ten years old. I forget that I’m broke and three thousand miles from home, that my half sister is a cocaine addict and my niece some sort of fugitive bride. Instead, I remember how our father looked at the wheel of his favorite automobile—elegant, laughing, full of life.
