It's cold. Very cold. A window in the car is down, and your dad is smoking.
The turn signal flashes and pulsates a few times.
The clouds overhead zoom past in a spectacle of stellar proportions.
The car smells like tobacco, which isn't a good smell.
He mumbles something about deer to himself.
There's a humble stillness in the vehicle.
But I don't notice any of this, see,
because I have you on my arm.