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almost hoped nobody would answer.
    In the headlights of my mother’s car, I could better appreciate what I’d done. Dad’s car was a foot or so shy of the water at the very bottom of the ditch but fully parked on one side of the deep embankment. The car looked out of place but oddly peaceful, too. Kind of sleepy. No hint of violence or high-speed trauma could be read into it. Dad walked around the scene, inspected for tire rubber on the road, dents in the fender, anything to explain how this could have happened, but no damage and no evidence of reckless speeding could be found. Another fifteen feet and I would’ve made the turn.
    â€œI wasn’t speeding. I turned, and I guess I missed the road,” I repeated. I couldn’t offer anything more than the self-evident.
    â€œI can see that, Ryan.”
    When my father makes a sentence, it’s never good to hear your name at the end of it. Dad dragged on his cigarette, exhaled hard through his nose, and chased the smoke with his signature, heavy sigh. The arc of my life readied for its final descent. When my father sighs, he sounds like a bull saddened by the colour red.

    â€œHonestly, I couldn’t see the turn.”
    â€œDo—you—see—it—now?” he boomed.
    â€œYes, but that’s because the extra lights are on. Mom’s car makes it—”
    â€œDon’t split hairs, Ryan. If you can see what you’ve done, you can see enough to . . . to not have done it!”
    He looked down the road and saw the tow truck coming. I heard its diesel engine.
    â€œHow am I to understand this, Ryan? Did you fall asleep? Were you driving the shoulder?” I didn’t answer. “Are you drunk?”
    I worried I could still have beer breath and didn’t want to have that offense on my head, as well.
    â€œOkay, I had two or three beers at the party, but that was hours ago and I’m not drunk at all,” I pleaded. “I just . . . I didn’t . . .”
    Nothing more could be argued. He’d found his answer to the slow wreck. That was enough. Dad paid to have the car towed home instead of letting me drive it.
    For two excruciating days, my father refused to speak to me. When I walked in a room, he left. If I asked him to pass the beans, he did, but put them down with a slam. I was with Greg in the lunchroom all over again. Yes or no questions were given nods or grunts. Ma carried on, business as usual, but her chipper edge had dulled. Quietly, she made an appointment to have my eyes checked, just in case, but stayed out of the situation, otherwise. Like me, I suspect she also waited for dad to break. Even my brothers and sisters waited, mostly in their rooms, like animals sensing a nasty shift in weather. Then,
one afternoon when he was driving me home from work, he suddenly pulled over and put on the emergency lights.
    He turned to me and broke into a fury I’ve never known since. It was like rocketing across four lanes of traffic, every horn honking and every tire squealing. The emergency lights ticked their beat, but I could feel time slowing down, as it does.
    In his rage my father surveyed everything I’d done to endanger myself. I’d lied about drinking. I’d lied about not seeing the turn in order to hide the fact that I’d been drinking, and who knows if I’d done this before. He’d clearly reconsidered the legend of the Rock King. Then he reminded me about my mother’s job at the police station, what she sees and hears every day about drunk drivers. I’d endangered myself, my family, strangers, and in his judgment, I’d demonstrated unforgivable idiocy. The only thing I had going for me was luck. I was lucky, he said, that’s all, and being lucky doesn’t make it any better.
    We sat in silence on the side of the road. Soaked in self-pity, I stared out the window for an answer and fidgeted with loose change in my cup holder. Dad lit a cigarette