Her new job started Monday.
Forty-six miles each way.
Mostly highway.
Five days a week.
Her old sedan had been maintained carefully, but I had spent the previous month waking at three in the morning imagining every bad thing that could happen during that commute.
That was why we were there.
Not to make Bradley understand us.
For Naomi.
“We’ll stay.”
I said.
Bradley gave a short laugh under his breath.
Naomi heard it.
I did too.
Maya did not look at him.
“Come with me.”
She led us toward a quieter section of the showroom.
Three vehicles had been set aside.
A compact crossover.
A midsize sedan.
The silver crossover I had already been inspecting.
Maya put her tablet down.
Then looked at the folder.
“May I?”
I handed it to her.
She opened the first page.
Unlike Bradley, she actually read it.
That simple action affected me more than it should have.
She turned a page.
Then another.
“You've organized these by category.”
“Yes.”
“Primary safety.”
“Visibility.”
“Braking.”
“Assistance features.”
“Maintenance costs.”
“Insurance estimates.”
“Expected fuel cost.”
Naomi sighed.
“He's been doing this for three weeks.”
“Four.”
I corrected.
“Four.”
She looked at Maya.
“He texts me safety articles before breakfast.”
“They’re useful.”
“They’re 6:20 a.m. useful.”
Maya smiled.
Then her finger stopped on one number.
Circled near the top of several pages.
She looked up.
“You wrote forty-six everywhere.”
“That’s Naomi’s commute.”
“Each way?”
“Yes.”
Naomi nodded.
“Mostly highway.”
“New job?”
“Monday.”
“What kind of work?”
“Research coordinator for a medical-device company outside Columbus.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Maya flipped another page.
“Current vehicle is the blue sedan outside?”
“Yes.”
She looked through the showroom windows.
“Year?”
“2013.”
“Mileage?”
“One forty-six and change.”
“You maintain it?”
I opened the rear section of the folder.
“Every service receipt since 2017.”
Maya looked at Naomi.
“Did you ask him to do this?”
Naomi laughed.
“No.”
“I asked him to come look at cars.”
“He turned it into a federal investigation.”
I smiled.
“That is unfair.”
“You printed a spreadsheet ranking head-restraint geometry.”
“That is completely fair.”
Maya laughed.
For the first time since we entered, the tension eased.
Then she looked at me.
“You keep coming back to side impact.”
I stopped smiling.
Maya had noticed.
She turned several pages.
“Here.”
“And here.”
“Again.”
“You put more notes beside side-impact protection than any other category.”
Naomi looked at the folder.
I did not.
Maya asked gently:
“Why?”
I knew the question was coming eventually.
I had simply hoped I could answer it with numbers.
Statistics.
Vehicle structure.
Airbags.
Door beams.
Anything objective.
Instead I looked at Naomi.
My daughter was twenty-seven years old.
Brown hair cut just above her shoulders.
Green-gray eyes like her mother’s.
She had spent the past five years becoming more independent while I spent the same five years pretending independence did not scare me.
“Your mother died in a side-impact crash.”
I said it quietly.
Naomi’s expression softened.
“I know.”
Maya immediately closed the folder partway.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was five years ago.”