The first law of cake was broken when my father cut a slice before the official post-race cooling period. The second law was broken when my mother declared the remaining cake would be the prize for the race winner. A non-caloric incentive. It was brilliant in its cruelty. A simple carbohydrate became a dopamine trap.

Later, as I cleaned my glasses, my mother sat next to me on the couch. She smelled like sweat and antiseptic.

“You didn’t have to walk with me,” she said.

Log Entry: Post-Denominational Sunday. Location: East Texas. Threat Level: Moderate.

My father, George Sr., saw the race as an opportunity to reassert his dominance over our neighbor, Agent Jefferies of the FBI. It was a classic territorial dispute over a Weber grill that escalated into a footrace. Adult males are fascinatingly primitive.

I helped her up. We walked the remaining 1.6 kilometers together. We did not discuss God, physics, or the FBI. We discussed the optimal angle of the sprinkler head that caused her fall (forty-seven degrees). It was the most pleasant conversation we had all week.