He drops you off, then rides home alone

Four in the morning, still dark. The motorbike loaded up behind the seat, boxes strapped down with bungee cords, six hours of road ahead. Paperwork, finding the room, setting up the bed, wiping down the desk — by the time it was done the afternoon had gone soft.

Before leaving, his father stood in the middle of the room and went through everything. Lock the door. Eat properly. Don't stay up late. Call me if anything happens. The new roommates were right there listening, so the son just nodded, a little embarrassed, wishing his father would wrap it up. Only much later did it make sense: his father wasn't afraid the boy would forget. He was afraid of running out of things to say, because then he'd have to turn the bike around.

At five he started the engine. His son walked him to the end of the alley, said "ride safe," and went back in to finish unpacking. About twenty kilometres out, his father pulled over, cut the engine, and sat there with a cigarette. He sat much longer than one cigarette. Then he stubbed it out, started up, and kept going. The son never saw any of it — his mother mentioned it months afterward.

That night, nine o'clock, the phone stayed quiet. Not because his father wasn't thinking about him. He sat beside it all evening, picked it up and put it down a few times, worried the boy was busy, worried he'd be a bother. It went on like that until late.

Four words, three seconds to type. He waited on them all afternoon.

When was the last time you sent one home?