“Are you kidding me?” I say, putting the car in park. I look up at the Easter egg pink and purple bricks. “Are you sure that’s the house?”
“Yeah. I mean, it used to be white,” my Dad says.
“Yeah I know that. I mean the paint—who would do that?” I imagine our old house occupied by tie-died hippies on acid with names like Hobo Joe and Sarafina Rainbow. “That is unfortunate.” I loose my seatbelt and crack the car door.
“You want to get out?” My Dad says, quietly, as if he’s afraid someone will hear him.
“I didn’t drive all the way out here to sit in the car,” I say.
“Well, let me put my jacket on,” he says, and he reaches into the back seat and I sigh, my hand still on the door. He struggles to get his arm in the sleeve.
“Dad. Your seatbelt.” I say, pressing the button to unlock it for him.
Then, I see a bright light whisk by like a Frisbee. I lean into the steering wheel to get a better look and mash the heel of my palm into the horn. The blast of it cracks across the hillside and every woodland creature within earshot trains its whiskers on us and marks us as the intruders we are.
“Jesus,” Dad looks at me like I have just farted.
“What?” I say, and I get out of the car.