BRIAN
We’ve been on the road for an hour in this rainstorm, and the kid still hasn’t asked where her daddy is. That’s the thing that sticks out for me the most. Not a word on him—no worry, no curiosity.
She wants to know where we’re going: California. She wants to know why we’re going: a vacation. She wants to know who I am: Mom’s friend, who’s helping them.
But there’s no “where’s my daddy?” or “when are we coming back?” or “why did we go so late at night?” No fear. She dropped off twenty minutes into the drive, face as peaceful as if she was still in her own bed.
What is with this kid? I thought Ophelia said her father doted on her. Is it just normal for him to be gone all the time?
I look in the back seat of the aging, cash-bought sedan we’re using as we’re stopped at a small-town
