“Dad? What are you doing in Amsterdam?”

“Taking your advice, living before I’m dead.

Allen set down his massive backpack on the dingy hostel floor. He wrapped Tucker in a fragrant bear hug. Tucker’s mouth hung open. Allen tossed himself carelessly on the room’s bottom bunk, Tucker’s bed. He barely recognized his father beneath his shaggy hair and tie-dyed clothes. Three months ago, his dad was a bad attitude in a nice suit.

“I told the girl at the front you’d be happy to bunk with your old man. She invited me to a poetry thing tonight. Till then I’m in your hands.”

“What about Mom and Sara?”

“Sara is plucky. She loves having your bigger bedroom and use of your old car to DoorFash. She’s not like us, always worried about the future. We are living in the now from now on. Your mom is—well—your mom.”

Tucker spluttered. This is some kind of joke. His folks treating him some life lesson. He looked over Dad was toking up.

“Not bad. But not 1991 New Brunswick.”

Dad offered Tucker a hit. Out of habit Tucker reached for it and then froze. Shrugging Dad had a faraway look in his eye.

“What about the business?”

“The place you called where souls go to die. I shook off that shroud. I want to travel, journey to me, like you are. I bummed around France, hiked the Black Forest, before I caught the train to see you. I’ve never felt freer. What did you say about money it’s other people’s problems?”

“Yeah, no. Money is a problem only if you make it a problem. Dad, this is bananas. You have responsibilities! The house. Work. Sara’s still in high school, for God’s sake. What’s your plan? How are you affording this little escapade!”

His dad’s gentle snoring was his only answer. A sudden realization rocked Tucker to his knees. He checked if Dad had left any cash in his bank account.