“Dooby-dooby-doo,” my dad sings, skipping across the pedestrian crossing at Constitution Square. When he does this, I laugh and skip with him. He’s taking me to preschool and I really don’t want to go. Dad is tall and has very long legs. He’s probably my favorite person in the world. We’re both pretending a little. Dad’s pretending that he’s happy (although in fact—as he told me years later—he “felt like a swine” because he was trying to distract me, to deceive me somehow).