Two steamed hot dogs. The buns dusted in flour. Condiments selection down to ketchup or nothing. But they were free from the food court, courtesy of the crazy haired lady. And they did their work, reducing Kaylee’s hunger whine into a sewing machine of yums. She kicked her legs back and forth beneath the picnic table, showing a closed smile to dad to keep the hot dog from spilling out.

“You should get one,” I said.

“Nah,” my father replied, “I had a big breakfast.”

“You can have my chips.”

“Well, thanks Kevin. Maybe just a few.” He snatched up the bag between his fingers and pulled open the top. I could taste their saltiness in the wind. But rather than feast judgmentally in front of our father, despite his recent transgressions, I decided to keep things diplomatic.

He shoveled half of the chips into his mouth, jutting his cheeks out. His long, slow chomp started to break them down. I could feel the sharp sides cut into his gums. He fiddled with the bandages around his arm. The raccoon bite was nipping at him again, which meant the medicine was wearing off. He swallowed the glut of chips.

“Probably time to get going, kids.”

I took the last bite of my hot dog as he poured the rest of the bag of chips into his mouth. Kaylee continued to hum away.

We retrieved the rest of our stuff from the East Lake beach and packed up the car. There was a stir across the parking lot. Three park security officers circled the white hat kid we saw talking to dad in the woods earlier. His jerky arm movements told us the conversation they were having. My dad saw it too and quickly opened his door.

“Come on, kids.”

On the way home, I buried my head into the King Arthur comic book I left in the car. The pages were warm from the sun, as the bard Taliesin sang about Lancelot and Lady Guinevere.

Kaylee fell asleep sitting up, her seatbelt suspending her shoulders in the air. She didn’t notice the lights flickering through the trees, and with all the swordplay and grail hunting flooding my imagination I doubted their reality. But as we curled up our winding driveway, we saw the police waiting patiently.

“Kevin,” my father said, “shove that backpack under the seat, please.” I did. The policemen waved, and my father started to taste the potato chips again.