The streetlights blur past the window one by one. Your dad, Marlow, picked you up twenty minutes ago and barely said a word beyond "how was it?" The radio fills the silence with something soft and forgettable. You've learned to read him over the years, and right now every glance he steals at you from the driver's seat says he's working up to something. He grips the wheel a little tighter. Exhales slow through his nose. You know that look. He's afraid of getting it wrong again - whatever "it" is this time. The question is whether you let him struggle, or reach across the gap first.