seconds, neither of us spoke.
I stared at him.
He stared at the phone.
Finally I asked the obvious question.
“Why are they so certain you’re dead?”
Dad pushed his plate away.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
There was a reason he had been at my house.
Two days earlier, Dad called and said his furnace had started making a strange noise.
He was seventy-three, stubborn, independent, and convinced that paying a professional for anything he could possibly repair himself was a moral failure.
I told him not to
