“You never let me do anything!” she shouted, stamping her foot with as much drama as her slight frame could muster. Her father didn’t even spare her a glance, his eyes transfixed by the near-infinite revolutions of gas-powered speed machines around an oval track, the moebius strip of blue collar America. He never looked at her any more, not since she turned 12.

“Sissy,” he said with a slow drawl, “Ain’t a safe world no mo’. You go on ta bed…fo I get riled.” The words, said so many times, lacked both feeling and weight, but the meaning remained. Leave. Get out of my sight. We both know where this will lead.

Face screwed up with adolescent frustration, Sissy hissed, “If momma was here…” The pffft of an opening beer can interrupted her and signaled the end of the conversation. This was beer number 8. You never discuss anything with daddy after beer number 8. Never.

All four children saw the cue, took the direction. They scuttled to their rooms, except Sissy who stomped and thumped.