"Tyler," he said. "Listen to me. You did a homework assignment. You got curious about where you came from, which is about the most human thing there is. None of this is on you. Not one ounce of it."
"But you're…" Tyler stopped. "You're different now. With me. Careful."
Eric was quiet for a mile. A truck passed them, hauling cattle.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I guess I have been. I think I've been scared that if I hold on too hard you'll feel like you can't go find this out. And if I don't hold on hard enough, you'll think I don't care. And I don't know where the middle is. I'm trying to figure it out. I'm not very good at it yet."
Tyler absorbed this. "I thought you were being careful because you didn't want to be my dad anymore," he said in a very small voice.
Eric's hands tightened on the wheel. He pulled onto the shoulder. He did not decide to; he just did it, put on the blinker and eased the car onto the gravel and stopped, with Picacho Peak looming in the windshield and the cars whipping past.
He turned in his seat to face his son.