17MILL CREEK HAD BEEN but a respite, a temporary remission. On the return flight, staring at incredible cloud formations—pure white fluff sparkling in the sun’s brilliance, intricate nooks, crannies, crevices, dark canyons, immense cotton-ball head walls to thirty-six thousand feet—Bobby’s confusion exacerbated. That guy gonna live with him for six months? Penance? He’s my grandfather. Bummer, Man. He knows I couldn’t stay. Then without inner verbiage, which he could control, but with inner images, which he could not: Stacy—should have called—couldn’t—the Capri parked uphill on her street, an OP. His insides roiled, the clouds darkened. They don’t understand, he thought. But he knew it was he that did not understand, did not comprehend what had happened, was happening. How badly he wanted
