For a while, during my teen years, my parents owned a place near Whistler, a ski resort in the mountains north of Vancouver. It was a sort of half weekend get-away, half rental my parents could use to recoup some of their costs.

Weekend after weekend we'd go up there, usually just my dad and I. We'd set the place up, assemble Ikea furniture, paint the walls, or whatever else needed doing, and then head back down to the city.

The trips back home were usually late at night. That highway is notoriously treacherous. Gorgeous during the day, but downright shit-splattering at night. Headlights shining into a fathomless void over the edge of a precipice at each turn.

I recall my dad once saying, "I'm getting sleepy. Keep me talking."

"Tell me about your childhood," I said.

"Well, there isn't much to tell."

We agreed, instead, to roll the windows down because the cold air would probably keep him awake.