Another beat. “Ah. Yes. We call them something different in Canada.”
“You call airbags something different.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Supplemental impact cushions.”
I snorted. “Absolutely no one calls them that.”
He tightened his grip on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. “Regional variation.”
“It still doesn’t have them,” I said.
“I am a very attentive driver,” he replied evenly
“So,” I said, keeping my voice light, “your father wasn’t a car person.”
“No,” he said. “He preferred other… modes of transportation.”
I waited.
He cleared his throat. “He believed relying too heavily on human systems made one undisciplined.”
“That sounds like a man who would hate New York.”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “And phones.”
I smiled at that, even as the road curved ahead and he slowed with almost ceremonial precision.
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I think the car suits you.”
He glanced over at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You do?”
“It’s dramatic,” I said. “Beautiful. Completely impractical.”
His mouth curved slightly. “High praise.”
We drove on, the engine humming low beneath us, grief and rebellion riding quietly in the spacebetween our seats.
“I do prefer flying,” he said almost in passing.
I stared at him.
He froze, then corrected quickly, “Flyingdownthe road. Swiftly. With speed.”
“You mean… driving?”
“Yes.”
“You said flying.”
“It’s a modifier of speed.”
“Mm.”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I meant what humans say when they are moving quickly.”
