11
I marched up to my room after the run in with Geraint. Perched in the high-backed chair in the corner of the room was my satchel. It was well worn from ill use, but I always handled it with care. It had been my father's.
Most kids knew their dad was home from work because they saw his car in the driveway. We'd never had a driveway. We'd never had a house that we called our own. We were always on the road or a ship or out in the middle of a desert.
So when I saw that satchel on the tarp of our tent, or in a chair of a rental flat, or on the bed of our hotel room, I knew that my dad was home from work.
He may have been gone for only a few hours, or a few days, or weeks. But seeing that satchel always kicked up my heart rate. I'd race around the campgrounds or from room to room to find
