Sitting next to my hairbrush was a stiff cardboard photograph of a black luxury sedan, a glossy promotional brochure from the dealership in town.
Lily must have left it there while I was downstairs.
I typed a short reply.
That is up to Dad.
The response came back almost instantly, the three dots dancing on the screen before her words appeared.
He said it depends on you.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass.
Why would a car for the family depend on my eighteenth birthday?
I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the long gravel driveway.
My grandfather’s black town car was gone, having left in the middle of the night.
I opened my desk drawer and took out a scrap of paper, but it was blank.
I had already memorized the ten digits.
I sat back on the edge of my bed, the room still half-shadowed by the heavy drapes.
The numbers ran through my head like a chant.
Two, zero, three, five, five, five.
I lay back down on the pillow, pulling the heavy quilt over my shoulders to block out the morning light.
