The stewardesses didn't seem to mind my father's requests for peanuts. I rolled my eyes.
At the hotel, he whistled Gershwin. "Shhh!" I snapped.
He cracked his knuckles. He snored. He made strangers take pictures of us with his camera. I counted the days until we'd fly home.
On the fifth morning, we went to the hotel pool. When I dove in, my head hit concrete.
As I regained consciousness, doctors were stitching my bloody face. Behind them, my father made funny faces to comfort me.
I had snapped at him for four days straight.
And he made funny faces.
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