In a nameless city in a nameless state, I sat in the driver’s seat of a station wagon with the engine off, reading a book propped open on the steering wheel, patiently waiting for my 72-year-old father to exit a ramshackle apartment in a back alley.
Thirty minutes had passed since he initially left the car for his “appointment,” and I was beginning to get nervous. I continued to read in the way one reads while intensely worrying. I read sentences and turned pages and absorbed absolutely nothing. I carried the fast-paced best-selling thriller around for weeks “not” reading the same paragraph over and over.
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