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piece of cardboard that reads:
Need $$$ for ticket home to see sick mother. God Bless.
The bus is crowded,as it always is right before the holidays, but the thin, longhaired man sitting across from me puts his backpack down on the empty seat beside him, claiming the territory.
    I pick a seat and immediately regret my choice. The lady next to me spreads out her elbows as she reads on her Kindle, edging into my space. I pretend to stretch, then bump her arm and say, “Excuse me.”
    As the bus driverturns on the engine and pulls out of the terminal, I think about my Sunday session with Dr. Shields again. The question I dreaded never resurfaced, but I still dug into some pretty serious stuff.
    I wrote about how a lot of my friends call their dads when they need to borrow money, or to get advice on how to handle a difficult boss. They dial their moms when they come down with the flu, orfor comfort during a breakup. If things had been different, that’s the kind of relationship I might’ve had with my parents.
    But my parents have enough stress; they don’t need to worry about me. So I carry the burden of needing to construct a great life not just for one daughter, but for two.
    Now I rest my head against the seat back and think about Dr. Shields’s response:
That’s a lot ofpressure to endure.
    Knowing that someone else gets it makes me feel a little less alone.
    I wonder if Dr. Shields is still conducting his study, or if I was one of his last subjects. I was addressed as Subject 52, but I have no idea how many other anonymous girls sat in the same uncomfortable metal chair, pecking away at the same keyboard, on other days. Maybe he’s talking to another oneright now.
    My seatmate shifts, crossing the invisible boundary into my space again. It’s not worth battling. I edge closer to the aisle, then reach for my phone. I scroll through some old texts looking for one from a high school classmate who was organizing an informal reunion at a local bar the night after Thanksgiving. But I scroll down too far, and instead pull up the text that came infrom Katrina over the summer, the one I never responded to:
Hey Jess. Can we meet for a cup of coffee or something? I was hoping we could talk.
    I’m pretty sure I know what she wants to talk about.
    I slide my finger over the screen so I don’t have to see her message any longer. Then I reach for my earbuds and pull up
Game of Thrones
.
    My dad is waiting at the bus station in his belovedEagles jacket, a green knit cap pulled down over his ears. I can see his exhalations make white puffs, like cotton balls, in the cold air.
    It has been only four months since I last visited, but when I glimpse him through my window, my first thought is that he appears older. The hair peeking out from beneath his cap is more salt than pepper, and his posture sags a little, like he’s weary.

    He looks up and catches me watching him. His hand flicks away the cigarette he is sneaking. He officially quit twelve years ago, which means he no longer smokes in the house.
    A smile breaks across his face as I step off the bus.
    “Jessie,” he says as he hugs me. He is the only one who calls me that. My father is big and solid, and his embrace is almost too firm. He lets go and bendsdown to peer in the carrier I’m holding. “Hey, little guy,” he says to Leo.
    The driver is pulling suitcases out from the belly of the bus. I reach for mine, but my father’s hand gets there first.
    “You hungry?” he asks, like he always does.
    “Starving,” I say, like I always do. My mom would be disappointed if I came home with a full stomach.
    “The Eagles are playing the Bears tomorrow,”my dad says as we walk to the parking lot.
    “That game last week was really something.” I hope my remark is flexible enough to cover a win or a loss. I forgot to check the score on the bus ride down.
    When we reach his old Chevy Impala, he lifts my bag into the trunk. I see him wince; his knee bothers him more on cold