"What is it, say an hour and a half? Two hours?" Dad asks.
He meant how far to Mrs. Bush's, his home for the past year now. We've been driving it, twenty-six miles one way, since last March.
"Not quite that long, Dad. Maybe thirty minutes, thirty-five."
"Oh," he said, "Fine. Sure."
He tells me his forgettery is acting up.
"The mind," he says, "it clicks in and out."