I wonder how my father is doing; I will call him tomorrow and ask him. He’ll shit if I tell him I’m on the bus, by the way; it’s part of the reason we don’t talk often. If we don’t squabble over politics and class, we’ll spar over whose generation made it the way it is. I got to remember to tread carefully when discussing anything sensitive with him. He’ll never admit it to my face, but I think I’ve actually persuaded him with my arguments, on occasion; and I’m sure he’ll tell you the same about me if you ask him. I miss him too.