I turned my silver wedding ring again, my thumb catching on the edge of the metal.
The heat on the asphalt seemed to press down harder as I walked back toward the glass doors of the service plaza.
Inside, the air conditioning hummed, but the coolness did not stop the sweat on the back of my neck.
I spotted them through the glass of the convenience store section, standing near the refrigerated drinks.
Marcus was holding two bottles of water, his fingers tapping against the plastic as he waited for the cashier to ring them up.
The little girl stood perfectly still beside him, her arms pressed straight against her sides, her eyes fixed on the black rubber mat under her feet.
Maybe it was a custody dispute, the kind of messy family business that people tell you to stay out of when you are traveling. Fathers and mothers fought ugly every day, and sometimes men took their own kids across state lines just to make a point.
But a child does not write a note in crayon on a gas receipt for her own father.
