The only reason Dad’s letting me on his perfectly moss-free, leaf-free driveway is I’ve sent him a buncha texts to soften him up. I can’t just do some sudden walk-up. I haven’t got any work this month with NZ Girls and I need a thousand bucks to pay off Shayna Slattery, else I’m getting the bash big-time.
He finds me on the driveway and carefully balances his leaf rake on the deck before he wraps me in a hug. Dad is whiting out in a fog of old age but he’s still tall, superior. His big cheekboned, judgemental face is still six-feet-four-inches up in the air, and of course he’s wearing a flannel shirt tucked deeply into his pants with a thick belt, as if he has to look neat to impress random peeps that drive past. His hedge is cut square like a green block. There’s a big spray pack of Roun
