It was maybe a week after my father died that I brought the weapon home — for him. And never, even while I piloted the car to a hunting area, did it cease talking. “Drive better, son,” it barked, as I launched the car into motion. “Are you trying to get us killed, before we’ve even made it out of Ann Arbor?”
“Well, you’ve no worries on that score,” I mumbled. I was afraid to speak up, to let him know how I really felt, but not even all of his gripes were logical — and if nothing else, Dad always claimed that he preferred to be sensible, about life. Even if I had shown any tendencies to reckless…
