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flip-flop stranded on the asphalt. A car had run over it, sending it spinning into the path of another. What my father did next was so reckless he had to have been drunk. Hopping out of the Chevy, he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action. I was in awe.
    Seeing a lull in traffic, my father sprinted across four lanes of Houston highway and scooped up the flip-flop. Triumphant, he raced back waving the plastic thong in the air, dodging cars that honked in protest. Everyone erupted into cheers except for Mom. She slapped her forehead and shook her head in relief. I was still slack-jawed when my beaming father handed me the shoe and signed, “Don’t cry, baby girl.” Using his big calloused thumb, he wiped away my tears and kissed my head and cheeks a dozen times before he hopped back in the driver’s seat.
    Back home, I could smell the beach salt for days. Tiny grains of sand found their way into my sleeping bag and scratched my burnt skin. As always, I had gotten too much sun and was covered in blisters by bedtime.
    Mom patted me down with vinegar to take away the fever andchills. Then she squeezed cool, oozing juice from a stem of an aloe plant that grew wild behind the shed and spread it across my bubbling skin. I drifted off to sleep while thinking about what my father had done and felt a twinge of guilt. That flip-flop was a cheap old thing. It didn’t even really fit me anymore.
    I thought I’d be overjoyed when our brand-new cream-colored mobile home with chocolate-brown trim was delivered—complete with its own furniture—but I could hardly stand it for the smell. We had been sharing that one-room tin shed all summer long and were all looking forward to the upgrade, but the stench of the formaldehyde used to make the cabinets and walls was overwhelming. It burned my eyes and throat and made me retch.
    “You’ll get used to it,” Mom told me. I was tempted to stay in the shed, but I wanted to sleep in a real bed in my own room, so I slept with a sheet over my head and breathed through my shirt.
    David’s and my bedrooms were at the opposite end of the trailer from my parents’. Their room spanned the width of the trailer and had its own en suite bathroom. There was a living room, kitchen, dining area, and den separating their bedroom from ours. Each room was carpeted in thin brown acrylic shag. The walls were constructed with fake wood-grain panels so thin they couldn’t hold a nail. We still didn’t have electricity or water, but we finally had privacy and liberation from dirt.
    The trailer was on stilts, so David and I made an extra effort to walk around on tiptoes because the entire mobile home would vibrate if we didn’t and that would annoy our parents. Vibration is one of the best ways to alert a deaf person. In fact, there is awhole product line of alarm clocks and smoke and carbon monoxide detectors that shake the bed of a deaf or hard-of-hearing person.
    Besides vibration, another way to get a deaf person’s attention is by waving your arms in the air or flicking a light switch on and off. Mom always preferred a flashing light to wake her up, but my father needed a good shake to rouse him from a deep sleep. Even Pamie knew how to get Dad’s attention. Instead of clanging her empty food dish for me and my brother to fill, she’d pick up the bowl and place it in my father’s lap.
    In the evenings, I loved to help Dad with whatever project he was working on. Dad customized the kitchen floor with fancy tiles he brought home from a construction site, and made a larger breakfast nook where all four of us could eat together. David and I helped him build decks for the two doors exiting the trailer.
    By the back porch, my father hung a tire swing from a fat old oak tree. David and I took turns pushing each other high enough to kick the other branches of the tree. I loved twirling the rope tight before letting go, making myself spin so fast my hair stood straight out.
    We found the