Our tires crunch on frozen slush. My dad edges slowly up the driveway, high beams on, driving in the ruts made yesterday in the daylight. I see pine trees, house, garage. The back end of the mighty station wagon sways, tires spinning. My dad has supreme confidence in snow tires, even on ice. The lights of the dashboard illuminate his hands, one at the ten o’clock position, the other at the two — the proper way to drive, he says. When I drive, my hands fall on twelve and six. This irritates him. My stepmother is in the passenger seat. I am in the back. It’s eerily silent in the car, and I know why.