“She’s cool,” Syd said.

On the TV, Matt Lauer was warning about possibly radioactive granite countertops. Every day, something new to worry about.

Syd dug into her eggs. “Mmm,” she said. She glanced up at the TV. “Bob,” she said.

I looked. One of the ad spots from the local affiliate. A tall, balding man with a broad smile and perfect teeth standing in front of a sea of cars, arms outstretched, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“Run, don’t walk, into Bob’s Motors! Don’t have a trade? That’s okay! Don’t have a down payment? That’s okay! Don’t have a driver’s license? Okay, that’s a problem! But if you’re looking for a car, and you’re looking for a good deal, get on down to one of our three loca-”

I hit the mute button.

“He is a bit of a douche,” Syd said of the man her mother, my ex, lived with. “But those commercials turn him into Superdouche. What are we having tonight?” Breakfast was never complete without a discussion of what we might be eating at the end of the day. “How about D.A.D.?”

Family code for “dial a dinner.”

Before I could answer, she said, “Pizza?”

“I think I’ll make something,” I said. Syd made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

Last summer, when Syd and I were both working at the same place and she was riding in with me, Susanne and I had agreed to get her a car for nipping around Milford and Stratford. I took in a seven-year-old Civic with low miles on a trade and snatched it up for a couple thou before it hit our used-car lot. It had a bit of rust around the fender wells, but was otherwise roadworthy.

“No spoiler?” Syd cracked when it was presented to her.