"Look at me," he said. Tyler looked at him. "I have been your dad for sixteen years and five months. I was your dad before you had a name. I was your dad when you threw up in my car on the way to Disneyland, all three times. I was your dad when you broke your wrist on the trampoline and when you got suspended for that thing with the fire alarm in eighth grade and when you won that science fair with the solar oven made out of a pizza box. I am going to be your dad when you're forty and annoyed at me for calling too much. Nothing that website says is going to change that. You hear me? Nothing."
Tyler's face crumpled. He turned toward the window and pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. Eric put his hand on the back of his son's neck, the way he used to when Tyler was small and woke from a nightmare, and they sat there on the shoulder of I-10 in the September sun for a long time while the traffic roared by.
* * *
Daniel Reyes lived in a low, sand-colored house in a neighborhood on the east side of Tucson, with a mesquite tree in the front yard and a basketball hoop over the garage. There was a soccer ball in the gravel. There was a dog barking somewhere inside, a deep, foolish bark. Eric pulled up to the curb across the street and turned off the engine, and for a moment neither of them moved.
"You don't have to come in," Tyler said. "I mean. If you don't want to."
"I'll wait here," Eric said. "This part is yours. I'll be right here when you're done."
Tyler nodded. He did not move. Then the front door of the house opened, and a man came out onto the step and stood there, shading his eyes.