The English muffin would not split. I was holding it over the sink, my thumbs inside, when the phone rang. I squinted across the kitchen at the Caller ID. Dad’s cell.
I finished getting the muffin apart, dropped it in the toaster, and walked over to the phone. I hit the return call button.
A woman’s voice. “Is this the girl whose father drives a green pick up truck?”
“Yes,” I said, imagining his phone left on a gas pump.
“I drive an eighteen-wheeler,” she said. “I think I just ran him off the road.”