My sister has parked our new car, which is her old used one, on the side of my parents’ house. It’s a familiar spot. The place my green Rodeo sat for months gathering wasps’ nests in its door frames. She is thirty six days from her due date, my sister. My dad got a portable crib for Christmas. He says that he’ll be babysitting.

Maybe we can take some of those shifts, I say.

Hard to do over Skype, he says.

You know that we’re on our way. Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it? Look at this conversation we’re having, it’s proof positive. We’ll be coming home right about the baby’s first birthday, give or take a month. She won’t notice. She won’t remember our tardiness. I will be her only uncle. The next generation incoming. Will they read our stories? Will they know of the mail delivered disks? The chatrooms? The struggle? The wars?


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