He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.

The engine rumbled to life, steady and familiar.

“Where to, Dad?” I asked, looking at his profile.

“The office,” he said, shifting the truck into gear.

“We have some things to sign, and then we need to talk about your school.”

As we drove through the city, the local news radio played softly.

The announcer spoke about the collapse of the Collins financial estate.

They mentioned the pending bankruptcy and the seizure of their mansion in Upper Arlington.

I turned the volume down, not wanting to hear their names anymore.

My father kept his eyes on the road, his grip relaxed on the steering wheel.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of Whitaker Construction.

The headquarters was a modern building of steel and tinted glass.

Inside, the lobby was quiet and polished, smelling faintly of lemon wax.

The receptionist, a woman named Clara who had worked there for ten years, stood up when we entered.

“Welcome back, Mr. Whitaker,” she said, her voice filled with relief.