The smell of canned chili, burned as usual, hovers in the air. The dishes are clean and stacked. The counter is wiped down with antibacterial soap, not a crumb or germ to be seen. Dad is in the kitchen doing food inventory, checking off each item on his three-page list. It’s something he does twice a day now that he knows his son is a graham-cracker felon. Between this and charting spaceships and folding laundry, I’m amazed he has time to sleep. I lift the keys to the Camry off the hook in the hall and sneak into the garage. I sit in the car, slide the seat back about six inches, put the keys in the ignition. I turn the ignition to the point where the accessories turn on. The dashboard lights up, red and white. The gauges settle into the appropriate positions. I smile. There’s a full tank of gas. I reach up to press the button for the garage door opener, but then I realize that would make too much noise. Dad would hear it for sure. I slip out of the car, pull a lever that disengages the opener, and slowly lift the door until there’s enough clearance to back out the car.
