Considering it was just after midnight in LA, Michael sounded surprisingly awake. “What kind of Peter Pan bullshit is this? What did Mom and Dad say?” “I haven’t told them yet.” The lights were dim in the parking lot of the Budget Lodge. A family of opossums scrambled for the shrubbery when I pulled in. “And who cares what they say? I’m twenty-nine.” “Just so I’m clear on the plan,” he growled. “What exactly are you doing out there?” “Hurricane relief.” I said it with a martyr’s pathos because I knew it would piss him off. I could hear him rubbing his temples, breathing through his nose. It was something he did when he was frustrated. “This is about Mom, isn’t it?” “No.” I was twelve again, and an authority figure was asking if I wanted to stay after school. I cut my engine and slammed my Jeep door. It felt good. “Really.” I tried to slam the hotel door too, but the lightweight particleboard made an unsatisfying swoosh. “Why did I even call you?”
