You complain that we won’t find Daddy’s Civic the entire way to the junkyard.

When we arrive at the lot of gutted cars, you lull behind me like a shadow. A sickle moon stamps the night sky, glowing pale white like my flashlight. The wind is cold; I zip up my jacket and put the hood over my head; I can feel my lips drying, chapping like the ridges of a dry desert.