I Let Him Finish Laughing First

donor whose name was on half the hospital wing where my mother had once scrubbed blood off tile at 2 a.m., rose from table two and said, very loudly, “Personal dispute my ass.”

Everybody looked at him.

Hollis was eighty if he was a day. Red face. Hearing aid. Tremor in one hand. He jabbed that same hand toward the projector.

“I asked your father about continue reading …