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always remembering something I should never have forgotten. School was almost out, and the Kid was enrolled in a special-needs day camp, though I was sure he would have been much happier spending the summer at an automotive school, or working at a car wash. He would need shorts, too. And sweatpants for the cool days. And bathing suits for the pool. Did they make kids’ bathing suits in flat black? Beige? My son had strict rules about what colors could be worn on which days. And none of the clothes could have writing on them. He hated clothes with writing. Did the camp have a uniform? Impossible. Well, if they did, let’s hope that it was colorful, so that he could attend at least twice a week! And then it occurred to me that his favorite black pants were now short enough to show his ankles. Could he get through the whole summer without them, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the tantrum of trying to get him to wear a different pair—at least until fall, by which time almost anything could happen? I put my head on the table for a moment and closed my eyes. It wasn’t the tantrums that wore me down, it was the day-to-day minutiae filtered through my son’s unique perspective. Nothing was simple.
    The obvious conclusion was that I was a terrible parent. I wasn’t bad as a father. I read to my son, I took him on fun outings, I made him “Dad” kind of food—scrambled eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches. I bought him ice cream. But without his entourage of shadow, housekeeper, teachers, doctors, and occasional volunteer duty from my father, the Kid and I would have been at each other’s throats. And the smart money would be on him.
    But I had chosen this challenge and never regretted it. My ex-wife, Angie, had done her alcoholic, narcissistic best, but by the time I got out of prison and found them, she had abandoned the boy to her mother, who kept him locked in a spare bedroom. She wasn’t being deliberately cruel; she just couldn’t cope with a child who communicated mostly in grunts, growls, and quotes from commercials. A child who bit whenever threatened; would not be held, hugged, or kissed; flew into violent rages or deep depressions when his clothes were the wrong color; banged into furniture until he bled; and regularly threw himself down sets of stairs in an attempt to fly. He had other quirks, too. Those were just the highlights.
    It took a small army of specialists to get him there, but the Kid was talking, his balance and coordination were much improved, and he was learning how to control his rages and fears. He hadn’t bitten anyone in weeks. But every night, after he was asleep, I sat staring down Broadway from my eighth-floor window, reminding myself of all I had not done for him that day. The list got longer every night.
    My cell phone rang.
    “Hey, how’d it go?”
    “Ah,
mia batata
.” It was Skeli, in my unbiased opinion the most completely perfect woman on the planet. When we first met she was working as the decorative foil in Roger’s clown act and finishing her doctorate. She was powerful, beautiful, and intensely independent—I did mention that I was unbiased—and a New York survivor. Despite having been doused in ketchup and bitten during her first dinner with the Kid, she kept coming back. She liked him. I liked her. Sometimes, she even deigned to share my bed.
    “What did I hear you say?”
    I turned the music off. Skeli’s only imperfection was her taste in music, which tended to run toward Faith Hill and Dwight Yoakam. “I’m practicing my Spanish, so I can tell Carolina not to bleach the Kid’s sheets.”
    “And you need to call her your ‘sweet potato’ to get her to understand?”
    “I’ll do whatever it takes, Skeli,” I said. Skeli—a Greek pun on “legs.” My nickname for her.
    “Martyr. So answer my question. How did it go?”
    “I’m hired. It’s a treasure hunt. The old man misplaced some of the money he stole, and the family wants me to find it.”
    “Will