This Cavalier smells like stale cigarettes. Foggy from the night heat of another oily Indiana summer. The engine sounds like baritone sandpaper, but dad’s proud of it. He’s forty-two, only twenty years older than me, but the cartilage in his joints is rusted from years of construction labor. His mortar and pestle knees have powdered the tissue into nothing. He grips the steering wheel, and I watch his dusty red knuckles r...