19I left Krüger’s cabin at seven. The Sunday evening temperature had dropped, though the air remained moist. Mist glazed the frozen roads. I drove with my hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock, as if my father were coaching from the seat beside me.
“Got a film of ice on the asphalt tonight,” I said aloud in my imitation-airline-pilot voice. “We’ll hold to a steady pace, keeping an eye out for cross traffic. We’ll be looking to avoid your sudden moves on this trip.” I added a crinkly-eyed chuckle. “So don’t worry about a little turbulence up ahead. No danger we’ll be spinning out of control.” I imagined my father laughing, then tipping his hat brim down to cover his eyes, faking sleep. Only a too-firm grip on the right-hand armrest would give him away. I kept my bright chatter up for t
