"Dale, what’s yours?" my dad shouts over the opening act, a punk band from Kansas City. The woman is about my age, with low breasts and tattoos up and down her arms. She shakes my father’s hand. "Laura," I hear her scream.

"This is my daughter, Penelope." He puts his arm around me, and squeezes. I can be a prop.

"Nice to meet you." Her hand is sticky and cool.

"That is so sweet," she says and gives me a smile a five year old would find condescending. I offer to go to the bar. Laura orders a Jack and coke, my father another beer. He makes a big deal of handing me a twenty. When I get back, Dale gives me a half-smile that`s really a question. I pat his arm. Yes, I answer. I`ll get lost.

P.J. Harvey comes out in a white pants suit. She`s tiny, but has a voice that defies her size. I`m several rows behind Dale and Laura, and watch them head bang to the music. I want to move as well, but am surrounded by a passive bunch. They feign thoughtful attentiveness through cocked heads and closed eyes. During a ballad I can barely discern, my father lifts his left arm high and sways, a lighter poised in his hand. The singular flame hovers over his companion`s head, threatening to catch it on fire.

Looking at him, unabashed as the sole lighter possessor in the entire place, I realize he`s happy. When we first moved to Fort Collins, we were sick from the altitude. With the mountains so far west, we didn`t think we were up so high. Each day presented a new symptom. Bloody nose, earache, vertigo. My ears felt full and hollow, and I couldn`t tell what was close or far away. My dad had dreamed of living out west all his life, but began to think he had made a mistake. The west my father sought didn`t have suburban sprawl. Nevertheless, he has thrived