It's just after 6 am when I call my father. Pacific time, that is; here in Florida, it's just after 9, and I have been on the road for 3 hours already. The phone rings; as I'm driving the car bucks at random, and I'm scared that something is going to explode out through the hood. It feels like a violent form of shift shock, so violent that it gives me the feeling in my stomach that comes when you go over a bump and feel weightless.
Dad picks up.
“Hi, it's Mario,” I say.
“Hey,” Dad says.
“I need you to find me a mechanic in Gainesville, Florida right now.”