I was jerked roughly forward, my feet stumbling over the dropped shopping, and then bundled clumsily into the back of a car.More hands gripped me and pulled me forward. The car door slammed behind me. Another door slam and then movement, the car setting off at a disturbingly normal pace: no chance of the police coming after us if we weren't speeding.This felt thought-through. Clumsy but premeditated.A hand gripped across my mouth and another pressed my face down into the dark of someone's lap. I was still trying to work out what was happening. I thought I heard someone laughing, the driver maybe.In American cop shows a*****ed victims are often able to give good estimates of how long the trip took, what kind of speed the car felt like it was doing, if it was a winding country road or a straight fast motorway. In real life it's not like that. It's all darkness and chaos. Fear. Being jostled and flung about randomly by the car's movements. The only thing I could tell from the. I’m not sure what my father was doing wrong (or right, for that matter) but the practice seemed like an excellent cardio workout. Attendance at Jupiter’s Gym would go up significantly if it was added to the options.Tuesday was quiet, cardio-wise. The kids ended up with Kelly’s parents after school. Dad was released and sent home mid-afternoon. I dropped by on my way home and found him sitting in his recliner. Mom was hovering around him, which was driving him nuts. “Maureen, you are driving me crazy! I am not going to die in the next fifteen minutes, so go sit down!”“Jack, don’t you start with me!”Dad looked over at me and picked up his glass. “Iced tea, unsweetened. I can’t even have a beer until after my first meeting with the cardiologist.” He grimaced.I had to smile at him. Dad had probably had a single beer every day after getting home from work for the last thirty years. “Probably the soberest you’ve been this century.”“Certainly, the soberest since you three came along!” He.
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