We pulled into the gas station lot at 1:48am and killed the engine. The heat kept blowing for a while, and neither of us moved to get out.
My brother said Dad's name first. Just the name, like he was testing whether it was safe to say.
It had been eleven months. Nobody in the family had said it out loud since the funeral. Not once. An anniversary came and went last week and we all just texted each other photos with no captions.
I told him about the disposable camera I found in Dad's glove box. Three shots left on it. I've been carrying it around for weeks trying to figure out what he would have used them on.
My brother said maybe Dad didn't know either. Maybe that's why he never finished the roll.
We sat there until the heat died and the windows went cold. The conversation didn't fix anything. There was no resolution, no plan.
But when he finally reached for the handle, I said let me take your picture. He froze, then laughed. I used shot number twenty-five. I don't know yet what I'll do with twenty-six and twenty-seven.